Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Living in Thirteen is… different.

Of course it is, it’s a bunker underground, designed to house an entire District’s worth of people. But it’s abandoned. Phil tries not to think too hard about why.

Metal walls and winding corridors don’t exactly make for the best surroundings, but they make do. Richarlyson finds a storage room full of supplies, art ones included. The walls are soon covered in color, and the floors, and somehow the ceilings. But it keeps the kids entertained for a few days, each adding a small touch.

Pomme and Chayanne get along like a house on fire, though she and Ramon have also connected with Dapper, a kid from Ten who’s dad had gotten in trouble with some Peacekeepers shortly before leaving. Carre brought him along no matter how much he wanted to stay.

Tallulah gets along with all the kids as well, which is great to see. Every so often, she still has nightmares, only exacerbated by the harsh surroundings, but they ease with every day. The more colors, the more time spent with the other kids… the better she gets. It’s heartwarming to see.

Tommy and Tubbo like to encourage the kids’ mischief. Tallulah and Chayanne seem the only voices of reason when they get involved, but even then, they’re often swayed.

Phil suspects the older boys, Tommy in particular, are the reason the ceilings are painted a bright blue. 

 But it’s nice, like the sky. In some places, it’s a warm gray, in others, clouds dot the cobalt. Phil’s favorites have to be the mirrors of starry skies or the imitations of sunsets. It brightens up the otherwise dreary place.

Techno is… well, Phil can’t really put his finger on it. He’s made a few friends—Niki, Quackity, Charlie (and by extension, Mariana, a bit), and he gets along great with Cellbit and Bagi.

There’s longing in his eyes whenever he’s with the latter two, though, and a sadness with everyone else. It’s like he imagines his life in what-ifs, constantly thinking what would Wilbur do? Phil won’t lie and say he doesn’t do that too, but Techno lives and breathes it.

If there’s a ghost haunting these halls, it’s hanging around Techno, for sure.

It’s clear in the way he’ll still pause, moving as if he’s going to say something to the thin air at his side. Or how he’ll hum until he notices, cutting himself off. And how he’ll excuse himself in the middle of conversation, retreating to his room. 

He’s still so far away.

“I don’t know what to do,” Phil confesses, sitting in one of the abandoned boardrooms. It’s still rather bleak here, none of the kids’ influences making it this far yet.

“I don’t think any of us do,” Kristin mutters.

“A lot has changed for him in the past six months,” Missa says, “Maybe he just needs time.”

Time isn’t always enough. Sometimes, it just lets the wound fester and grow until it consumes you. Time only works in tandem with kind hands and a shoulder to lean on. Without the proper support, it’s all for naught.

“I’m just worried. Even Tallulah is doing a bit better than I imagined, and… she’s been through a lot,” Phil says.

“Techno did everything with Wilbur for almost eighteen years, though, Phil,” Kristin says quietly, “He’s only known a life with him in it. That’s a big adjustment.”

“I know, I… I don’t know,” Phil sighs, “Maybe I can get him and Chayanne to train? They both like that. And they’d love it if you were there, Missa.”

He hums, thinking about it. “That might help a little. But I feel like he needs something more. Something new that can patch up the hole left behind, you know?”

Phil scrunches his face. “Like what?”

“It’s clearly not gonna be people,” Missa says, “He already has some new friends.”

“Probably not hobbies,” Kristin adds, “You know how he is with those. He hates trying new things, no matter how much we tell him to experiment.”

“A purpose, then,” Missa says, “He needs something to do that isn’t just drifting day to day.”

Phil hums, considering it. This might work. Techno’s always been a doer, preferring to keep his mind sharp and his hands busy. It’s why he likes writing—that accomplishes both.

But Phil can’t help but remember the last thing Techno wanted to do. He wanted to take down the Capitol, to stage an entire revolution for Wilbur’s sake.

At the time, Phil had been wary. The Capitol could have snatched away all he loved in a heartbeat, in the house they handed to him as a poor compensation for the games. But now, they’re safe.

That… changes things. It ignites the dying fire in Phil, beaten down by years of walking on eggshells for the sake of his sons. But they got hurt anyway. He couldn’t stop that. 

But maybe now, it’s time to bring the Angel back from his fall. 

Phil will have to ask around, gather some opinions and feel it out. After all, living in a bunker forever is no way to live long term. No nature, no fresh air from the breeze, no life except for other people, artificial lights… it’s not sustainable. A week in, and Phil already misses the house. 

They’ll need to go home at some point. Phil doesn’t even feel totally safe here. Everyday, he wonders if the Capitol will find them. They’re still figuring out all the technology—Pac, Mike, Pierre, and Tubbo piecing everything together. In an attack, Phil isn’t sure they’d be prepared to defend everyone.

This peace is fleeting. They need more. And maybe that is a revolution.

“I might have an idea,” Phil mutters, “It’s… well, it might be crazy, but I think he’d be on board.”

“What is it?” Kristin asks, the night sky twinkling in her eyes.

“Overthrowing the government.”

Kristin blinks owlishly, dread washing over her face. Missa just sighs.

“Maybe not that,” he tries.

“It’s what he’d want,” Phil points out.

“It would certainly make him feel like he’s doing something,” Kristin agrees. 

Yes… attacking his problems in a literal sense rather than the mental or emotional. It sounds very much like Techno—avoiding the real root of his strife. 

“I just want to make sure that if this happens—if this happens—it’s not me and Techno against the world,” Phil says, “We’ll need everyone here. All the Districts.”

“That won’t be easy,” Kristin says.

“Are we really considering this?” Missa cuts in, bewildered.

“Techno already is,” Phil mutters, “He’s the one who suggested it to me when I first got home. I don’t think he’s forgotten the idea, and I sure as hell don’t want him doing something rash.”

“We’re not ready to go to war, though!”

“And we still won’t be if we don’t prepare,” Phil sighs, standing up, “I’m gonna see how the other victors feel about the possibility. I just… when it comes down to it, and it will, I want Techno safe.”

“He will be,” Kristin says, “Go talk to your friends, okay? It’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he replies quietly. He says his goodbyes and heads out of the room, pacing down the halls.

The problem will be finding everyone and asking in a way that doesn’t cause a ruckus or make him look crazy.

Overthrowing the Capitol, dismantling the games… it’s absurd, idealistic. 

A fantasy.

~ ~ ~

“Philza, look!” Baghera cries, drawing Phil’s attention immediately. They’re looking around to take stock of their supplies—a rather boring job, so he’s not sure what has her so excited.

“What’s up? Find something interesting?”

He walks closer just as Baghera turns around, grinning maniacally. A chainsaw is in her arms. “I found the power tools,” she says proudly.

Phil is suddenly very, very tired. “We don’t have any use for that, Baghera.”

“Yet,” she stresses, “We don’t have any use for it yet. But let me tell you, Philza, you can always use a chainsaw. There’s a reason they banned power tools after my games.”

Ah, yes. That.

Etoiles managed to convince a sponsor to send Baghera a chainsaw during her games. It certainly made them more interesting for the Capitol, but also more gruesome. They had to keep up their pristine image, and cutting up people with a chainsaw didn’t fit.

“We’re not in the games right now,” Phil points out. They’re safe right now. That’s all that matters at the moment.

“For now, yes,” Baghera agrees, “But you know better than anyone that we should always be prepared. Who knows when we’ll next have to fight?”

“You’re anticipating a fight?”

Baghera shrugs, setting the chainsaw down and patting it. The blade glints in the dim light, twinkling as though laughing. 

“I’m anticipating trouble is all,” she says, “We’re safe and sound, yes, but when does that change? When does the Capitol come for their missing victors? I’m not letting them drag me back so easily.”

Phil nods, his smile thin. “I feel the same.”

It seems Baghera is down for a fight, much to Phil’s… delight? Terror? He’s not quite sure, but as they get back to searching, Phil is just thankful that Baghera is on his side.

~ ~ ~

Etoiles swings at Phil, who just manages to parry it. Their blades connect, metal ringing in the air, their stares locked together. 

“Oh no, I’m going to lose,” Etoiles comments, a teasing lilt to his voice. It makes Chayanne and Pomme giggle on the sidelines. They each cheer for their respective dad.

Phil rolls his eyes. “You say that every ti—”

In one smooth motion, Etoiles disarms him, taking his sword for himself. His grin is catlike as Phil holds up his hands in defeat.

“See?”

“Oh, come on, Phil,” Etoiles says, “You had me on the ropes! I almost didn’t make it out alive.”

He hands Phil back his sword, the spar over. Phil just grins in return, the banter familiar and good. It irks him to think that they could have had many sparring sessions like this before, but couldn’t because the Capitol wouldn’t allow it. Even still, it feels… right.

“Our turn!” Pomme exclaims, standing and running over. Her overalls are stained with some of Richarlyson’s paint, as is her face, but she doesn’t mind. “Papa Etoiles, can I use your sword?”

“I would be honored, Légende,” he starts, “But the best swords are earned. You have to practice a bit more before wielding an actual sword, but one day, I will give you my blade to keep.”

She seems to accept that, nodding and running with Chayanne to grab their practice swords. Phil and Etoiles dip to the sidelines, sitting to catch their breath. 

Etoiles hands him a water he accepts gratefully, twisting open the cap and downing a quarter of the bottle. After a moment of respite, Phil clears his head, smiling as the kids take the mat.

“Our little fighters,” he muses, “I’m glad they get along.”

“How could they not?” Etoiles asks, “Look at us.”

Phil chuckles. “You’re right. They’re something, aren’t they?”

Chayanne waits, letting Pomme make the first attack. She begins with a flurry of strikes that Chayanne has to jump back to avoid. They trade a few blows back and forth.

“They’re having fun,” Etoiles smiles.

“I know. I’m glad Chayanne can spar with someone his age. He always accuses Techno of going easy on him,” Phil says.

“Well, does he?”

“Oh, he totally does,” Phil laughs, “But still, Chayanne loves fighting. I’d like for him to be able to hold his own, and this is a good way to learn—with someone who won’t hold back.”

Chayanne swings back, footing a little uneven, but otherwise good. Pomme stumbles, keeping a determined look on her face. 

“You’re right about that—Pomme won’t go easy on anyone,” Etoiles grins with pride, but it fades a bit the more he thinks, “She’s had to be like that. Strong and unwavering, a weapon, not a kid. Career Districts are tough, Phil. I’m just glad she’s still so kind despite it all.”

Phil smiles sadly. “Yeah… they produce some tough kids for sure. But the best are only raised by the greatest of people. Pomme is lucky to have had you and the others, for however long they were all around. She’s a good kid.”

“Thank you. She really is amazing,” Etoiles mutters, “I’m just… happy we won’t have to risk sending anyone else to the games. I think if Baghera and I had to mentor her, I would die.”

“That’s what it feels like,” Phil mumbles beneath his breath. 

Etoiles hums but doesn’t attempt to say anything to try and make him feel better. Phil appreciates it. “There shouldn’t be any games in the first place,” he says, “They’re kids. We were kids. The only games kids should play is tag or something.”

“Or red rover,” Phil laughs.

“Hide and seek.”

“All of the above.”

“At least now they can be kids,” Etoiles says, “For a while. But a while is better than nothing, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose it is.”

Chayanne’s sword taps Pomme’s side at the same time hers rests on his shoulder. They both smile, dissolving into laughter. Like it’s all a game to them.

Phil’s glad it is. That it can be.

“I think the world would be better without the games,” he mutters, “I think… I think this? Right here? This is nice.”

Etoiles hums, watching the kids ready themselves for round two—a tiebreaker. “Remember, Philza—I’m here if you need me. Just say the word.”

It’s like he knows what Phil is angling towards. Knowing him, he probably does.

“I know. Thank you, Etoiles.”

~ ~ ~

Phil finds Pierre, Pac, and Mike in the control room, illuminated by maps and flickering buttons begging to be pressed.

“They didn’t leave any instructions, whoever was here,” Pac murmurs, frowning at a control panel, “And it’s very advanced. Not that we can’t crack it, but…” he looks to his left, where Mike has fallen asleep at the table, “It’ll take some time.”

“Which we have plenty of,” Phil reminds him quietly. They’re in no rush, really. They have enough supplies to keep a city like the Capitol going for years. Their little group will be fine.

“But it’s still frustrating,” Pierre sighs, “If you work at something and see no progress, it doesn’t feel good.”

“I… can’t help you there,” Phil smiles, “I’m not really cut out for all this technology stuff.”

“Apparently we do, though,” Pac huffs, “The Capitol sure seems to think so.” He trails off, typing something away at the keyboard. The screen in front of him lights up green, a smile crossing his face. “Mike, wake up!”

He taps the man in question on the shoulder repeatedly as Mike jumps to awareness, rushing to fix his glasses. “Huh?”

“I got past the first blockade,” Pac reports proudly, handing over the keyboard to Mike, “It’s your turn now, if you’re so good at this stuff.”

Mike glares out of the corner of his eye. “You just want an excuse to be done so you can go see Fi—”

“Shut up!” Pac interrupts, “You—”

Phil tunes them out, words blurring together as Pierre just sighs, sipping on some much needed coffee. “Ignore them. They do this more often than you’d think.”

“I believe it,” Phil laughs, “From what I’ve heard from Cellbit and Felps, they’re practically brothers. And I know how brothers can bicker—my boys do all the time.”

Pierre just nods, smiling a bit. He fiddles with the small machine in his hands, a spark flying off as he connects two wires, a holographic map of the bunker coming to life.

Pac and Mike stop their repertoire, turning to look. Their project is abandoned, both men skirting the table to approach the image. Mike reaches out to touch it. He backs out last second, fingers brushing against the edge. The hologram tilts in the direction he swiped.

“What the…” Phil mutters in awe. This is… incredibly useful. They can see the entire base, every entrance and exit, every above-ground defense they have. 

The place is huge. 

Pac grins, touching a room. It enlarges, showing the finer details of the room. Its name, purpose, and contents are listed off to the side. 

“This is game-changing,” Pac breathes, glancing excitedly between Mike and Pierre, “We should take a break to explore.”

“We shouldn’t all go,” Mike says.

“But it’s been so long since we’ve been with everyone,” Pac points out, “Richinhas and Pomme would love to explore.”

“You should go,” Phil encourages, “Take a break. You’ve already made some headway. Besides, the Capitol kept you away for so long.”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing to take a break,” Pierre sighs, taking the device in his hands. The display shrinks exponentially, the perfect size to fit in front of a person. “And I’d like to spend as much time with Pomminette as possible.”

Mike thinks, mouth twisting as he ponders. “I can’t argue with that. We both know Richas has missed us too,” he sighs, “And the Capitol can’t get us here. They can’t send us away again.”

Pierre grins, standing from his chair. “See? Just like that—taking a break. And fuck the Capitol, they’ll never see my face again.”

Pac cheers, grabbing Mike’s hand and dragging him to follow Pierre. The trio disappears to find their kids.

Phil is left alone in the room, completely out of depth with the technology surrounding him. There’s a bit of sadness left lingering in the air, fathers separated from their kids purely because of their talents.

But there is still a silver lining—they’re here now. And Mike is right. The Capitol can’t send them away.

Not as long as they have anything to say about it. At this rate? They might. It seems their relocations have made the three harbor a resentment towards the Capitol, which Phil totally understands. 

He can’t help but feel happy that the three smartest people he knows would most certainly be on their side of a revolution.

~ ~ ~

“”How’re ya doin’, Phil?” Fit asks, leaning against the wall. 

“Me?” Phil repeats, a little surprised. He stops writing in his journal and shuts it quickly. “I’m fine.”

He thinks that’s what everyone assumes, anyway. Phil is just fine, now, only slightly burdened by his son’s death. That’s totally what’s happening.

It’s not like he had a dream last night, one of those cursed ones that are so mundane and insignificant they seem like real life. And those ones hurt the most because they give you hope. They make you forget all that’s happened for a while and fill you with it. Then, when you wake? You’re left grieving something that never existed in the first place.

But yes. He’s totally fine.

For some reason unbeknownst to him, Fit doesn’t seem to buy it.

“Don’t bullshit me, Phil,” he says, walking over and sitting across from him, “Anyone else might have believed that but I don’t, not for a second.”

“I’m not lying—”

“Cut the shit, Phil, we both know you are. Everyone might be too caught up in the feeling of finally being together and safe from the Capitol to see it, but that doesn’t mean you’re perfectly fine now.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because if I were you, I would have done something so drastic if Ramón was reaped, the Capitol woulda killed me. And I know you would have done the same. You’re just burdened by having other people to live for, to care for,” Fit says quietly, just for them to hear. 

The worst part is, he’s right. If it was just him and Wilbur, Phil would have gotten on that stage. He would have derailed the train. He would have condemned the Capitol publicly for all to hear. They could have run away so much sooner. Phil would have found a way.

He would have done… anything. Anything, just to have Wilbur here with him.

But he had Kristin. And he had Techno. And Tommy and Chayanne and Tallulah. Though he wanted to, Phil couldn’t just throw everything away. 

He carries the weight of that with him everyday.

“You’re right about that,” Phil acquiesces, “But it’s never too late for a message, wouldn’t you say?”

Fit loosens up, smiling with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Phil, whatever you’re thinking, you know I’m in your corner.”

~ ~ ~

Foolish blinks, looking between Phil and Mouse as if he’s lost. “Wait… is this—is this not a rebellion?”

Phil chokes on air, disguising it as a laugh. Maybe he’s gotten less subtle about asking, instead just inquiring Mouse’s opinions about the Capitol, but…

He may not know a lot about Foolish yet, but he wasn’t expecting that. Not from him, at least.

“No, Foolish, I—” Mouse cuts herself off, thoughts running through her eyes, “Wait is this a rebellion?”

Phil sighs. “No, there’s—”

“It all makes sense now!” Foolish declares, “What else would we be doing in a bunker?!”

Mouse gasps. “Oh my god, you’re right! Bunkers are only for apocalypses and resistances!”

“No, guys, I was just—”

“Don’t worry, Phil,” Mouse cuts him off, shutting her eyes and smiling widely in approval. She nods a bit, pigtails bouncing in the air. “We’re with you! Our enemies will die, their blood filling the streets!”

“Yeah!” Foolish chairs, throwing his hands in the air. Mouse reaches up and high fives him. “Viva la Résistance!”

It’s no use fighting. And they’re not mocking him, they’re… excited. So Phil just smiles, repeating “Viva la Résistance.”

The two explode into cheers, Mouse grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, a grin on her face the entire time. Phil just laughs, feeding into their antics.

~ ~ ~

“Phil?” Quackity calls, confused. It’s late, so Phil isn’t entirely sure why he’s up. The only reason Phil is awake is because he’s preemptively planning. So far, it seems like everyone would be on board.

“Quackity?” Phil sighs, “What are you doing up?”

“Oh nothing,” he says, taking a seat, “Chayanne and Tallulah mentioned earlier that they haven’t seen you in a while, so I figured I’d see how you were.”

“I’m doing alright,” Phil assured him with a smile, “Probably gonna go to bed soon, though. I told Tommy I’d help him get the greenhouse up and running soon. I think Tallulah, Chayanne, Tina, and Niki were gonna help.”

“That’s a good idea. Need any help?” Quackity asks.

“That’d be great, thank you.”

“What are you working on?” He asks, taking a seat opposite Phil.

“Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“Completely? You won’t say I’m insane?”

“If you are, then we all are,” Quackity says, smirking, “Come on, Phil! You can tell me anything.”

He smiles back, knowing that’s true. Quackity is a trusted confidante, both for their personal lives and their pasts. He always keeps Phil’s words to himself, locked securely away. Secrets aren’t for sale with him. They’ve both been hurt too much to think otherwise.

“It’s… plans,” Phil replies, “For a rebellion against the Capitol.”

Quackity blinks in surprise, but doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just stares, which Phil supposes is fair, considering the bombshell he just dropped on him.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Phil confirms, “I know that’s what a lot of people want, what they’d be willing to do to keep this peace moving forward, and… I’m starting to think I might want that too.”

“Well—that’s great,” Quackity breathes.

“You think so?”

“I do,” Quackity says, “That… would solve all our problems, really. We’d get to see each other more than once or twice a year. You guys would get to be with your families. We wouldn’t have to worry about kids dying, you know?”

“Yeah,” Phil says quietly, the weight of the world on his shoulders, “Yeah, I know.”

Quackity hums. “It’s true. Happens more than you’d think. Almost like the Capitol wants victors’ families to suffer. But, uh… I am sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Phil reassures him, “That’s a worry I had long before these past games. And it won’t go away unless we stop them for good.”

“I think we have a chance,” Quackity says, no hint of jest in his voice, “We might not have the numbers, not now, but we have the power. The President hasn’t fought in the games. We're from so many different Districts that love us, that we have connections in. They’ll see the Capitol isn’t fair. They’ll follow us, if they’re smart.”

Quackity isn’t just logical, he’s cunning. If he thinks it’ll work—and it sounds reasonable, it really does—then Phil won’t write it off just yet. 

“I think I’ll head off now,” Phil says, stretching his arms, “But I think you’re right. And… you’ve clearly thought about it. Next time, would you want to help me sort things out?”

Quackity smirks, but for him, it’s bright as the rising sun. “Absolutely.”

~ ~ ~

Phil can never pin Roier alone. It’s almost like Roier never lets himself be alone, like he’s afraid of his thoughts. It’s only a little suspicious.

Mostly he’s with Cellbit, sometimes Mariana, sometimes the kids, or Jaiden, a lot of the time. Eventually, Phil gives up and decides to bite the bullet—talking to him in one of his groups.

It just so happens that it’s Roier, Jaiden, Quackity, and Charlie. An interesting gathering.

After talking with Foolish, Mouse, and Quackity, Phil is starting to think there’s a reason they all agreed to leave their homes in the first place—they didn’t feel safe. They wanted something more. They wanted to be free from the Capitol. 

So he just asks.

“Would you guys be interested if we were to rebel against the Capitol?”

They pause their conversation, all staring aghast at Phil like he suggested something absurd. Which, to be fair, he did, but… well, to the company they share, it’s not out of the question.

Charlie is the one to speak first, oddly enough.

“Phil, you could give me a singular dagger, tell me to assassinate the President, and I would go in there and die willingly just to try.”

He says it without letting amusement leak into his features, but there’s a sly lilt in his voice that makes it feel at least partially a joke. Somehow, though, Phil can tell he’s not kidding.

Quackity scoffs. “I’d be right with you, dragging your ass through the Peacekeepers.”

Everyone laughs despite the gruesome scenario. “I would literally, with my last shred of strength, throw you at that fucking bastard,” Charlie laughs, “Just so you could slit his throat.”

“I’d want you to,” Quackity says, “Throw me all you want, as long as we drag that bitch to hell with us, I’m fine.”

“You two are awfully passionate,” Phil remarks, slightly amused.

“Some people deserve to die,” Charlie says, “Others don’t. The President is in the former category.”

Roier just shrugs. “Count me in.”

Jaiden kicks his leg. “Roier…”

“What?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, “Going up against the President is… well, it’s a death sentence!”

“So is being reaped, but I’m sitting here now,” Roier replies coolly, “I have a way of refusing to die, Jaiden.”

Something in her face shifts. Phil can’t tell if her features harden or soften, but there’s something old lying there, like a scabbed over wound that just reopened.

“Roier…”

“What? I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, idiot, and I won’t let you throw your life away because of some unnecessary guilt,” Jaiden says, emotion thick in her voice, “It’s been three years and I’ve made it very clear that none of it was your fault. You protected h—”

“If it wasn’t my fault, it was the Capitol’s, Jaiden,” Roier interrupts her, screwing his eyes shut, “And if that’s the case, I need to do this. For… my peace of mind, at least.”

Jaiden considers it for a moment, dark eyes boring into Roier’s, the two locked in a staring contest that neither seem willing to lose. Except then, Jaiden sighs and tears her eyes away. When they return to Roier, they’re resigned.

“Okay. I’ll be there with you, then, I guess.”

“Thank you, Jaiden,”

She hums in reply, and Phil looks around the group curiously. There’s something here he can’t put his finger on, but is clearly defining their willingness to help.

Three years ago… well, Roier’s games were almost three years ago, now. Phil didn’t watch them as attentively as this year’s, just thankful his kids were spared. That had been an odd year, though. District Nine had been particularly troublesome. Some Peacekeepers whispered of unrest, fearful of a greater catastrophe.

He’s pretty sure they only had one bowl for tributes across Districts that year as a result of Nine’s actions, and the Capitol made sure everyone knew that. A lot of people weren’t happy Roier won those games.

Before Phil can follow that thread, he’s interrupted by a voice.

“Congratulations, Phil,” Charlie says dryly, “Welcome to the dead kids club.”

Jaiden chokes on air, Roier burying his face in his hands as Quackity holds his hand up as if cheersing to the statement. 

“Charlie—” Jaiden exclaims, though her eyes sparkle, and Phil can tell she’s trying hard to fight back a laugh. 

“What? I’m right!” Charlie insists, a tad morose, “Besides, if it’s a club, then Phil doesn’t have to suffer in the deep dark abyss alone, wanting to let himself fall into it with no hope of getting out.”

“Yeah, we’ll be falling with him,” Quackity smirks.

Phil just smiles sadly—he should have figured. Every time the Reaping happens, twenty-three children are doomed to die. That means that usually, two parents are left to grieve—forty six in total. But some have fewer, or even none. Some have more, like Pomme or Richas. Either way, everybody loses somebody, whether a friend, a child, or a sibling. 

It’s not like parents losing kids is a new notion. It’s quite the opposite, actually. Phil has just been so surrounded by people saying ‘I hope I never have to go through that’ that he forgot people have. And they’re right here. 

“I… know it won’t help,” Phil says, “Believe me, I know, but… for the record, I am sorry.”

~ ~ ~

Phil isn’t actually looking to ask anyone the next time it comes up. Instead, he’s folding some laundry when Carre appears in the doorway, waiting expectantly.

They stare at each other for a moment, Phil setting a shirt down. “What’s up, mate?”

“I’ve been hearing some things,” Carre starts, twiddling his fingers, “A lot of people have been talking.”

“About?”

Carre shrugs, sticking his hands in the pockets of his blue cardigan. He looks around as if someone will see them.

“You know.”

“Apparently the entire bunker knows,” Phil laughs, “You don’t have to be so secretive, mate.”

“Oh, well, yeah, but…” Carre shakes his head, “We’re planning a rebellion?”

Phil smiles a bit, picking up Chayanne’s cape—a hand me down from Techno that the boy cherishes. He carefully folds it. “We’re working on it, ye—”

“I’m in,” Carre says quickly, “That’s all, bye—”

He leaves as quick as he came, Phil barely catching his form darting down the hall. He merely chuckles to himself and goes about his business.

~ ~ ~

Phil walks down the hall, headed for the meeting room Cellbit told him. He’s not sure what they’re going to discuss, but knowing Cellbit, it’s one of two things: something laughably simple, and this is all for dramatics, or something serious.

Usually it’s the latter.

That doesn’t help narrow anything down, seeing as their lives have gotten rather complicated as of late.

Phil opens the door to find Bagi, Cellbit, and Tina waiting for him. The girls sit side by side, Tina leaning against Bagi lazily as they talk. Cellbit is across the table, pretending not to pay attention, instead fiddling with his watch. 

Knowing him, however, he’s going to gossip with his sister later. Probably some light bullying as well. Just sibling duties.

But as soon as Phil walks in, they all sit up and at the ready. He greets them, taking a seat by Cellbit. 

“So,” Phil starts, “What did you guys want to talk about?”

“Just a small briefing,” Cellbit says, “To catch up and stuff.”

“Like—we’ve heard you’re thinking of fighting back against the Capitol?” Bagi asks, a hopeful lilt in her voice. 

Phil smiles and sighs. “Yes, I… I’ve been considering it.”

The twins cheer. They reach across the table and high five.

“Do we even have enough people to go against the President?” Tina asks, a bit more hesitant. Honestly, Phil welcomes the questions. That means everyone in this base isn’t completely crazy.

“If we can unify the Districts, we’ll have more people than they do,” Phil says, “They can’t stop us all. And, we have a lot of important people from many Districts here and on our side.”

“So we can convince our home Districts,” Cellbit supplies, “Phil you’re a genius!”

“That part was Quackity’s idea, not mine,” Phil says, “He’s the genius.”

“That could work,” Tina agrees, “If we can get them all to agree.”

“With people’s opinions on the games, that shouldn’t be the problem,” Bagi points out, “Career Districts are the hardest, but we have Baghera and Etoiles. They’ll definitely be enough to sway Two.”

“And we don’t have any victors from One, Three, Four, or Six,” Cellbit says, frowning.

“But we have people from everywhere but One,” Phil remarks, “Would that be enough?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Bagi frowns, “Pac, Mike, and Pierre were all relocated to Three. We don’t actually know if they even have any pull there.”

“And I’d think they’d listen to their own victors the most,” Tina offers, playing with the tips of her hair, “You know, allegiance and respect and all that. And they could be loyal to the Capitol.”

“I think Tina’s right,” Bagi says, “We shouldn’t rely on Three, Four, or Six. Definitely not One.”

“What about Charlie and Mariana, though?” Phil asks, “They’re native to Four. Would that mean anything at all?”

“We’ll have to ask them to see,” Cellbit sighs, “We can’t make assumptions, but some might be sympathetic. Others might despise them. We just don’t know.”

“So rule out Three and Six,” Tina sums up, “Maybe Four, we ask Charlie and Mariana what they think. But what about One? If we can convince Two, wouldn’t they follow other Careers?”

It’s a nice thought. And honestly, it makes sense, considering One and Two have the most competition amongst each other and are the two to win the most games. Whatever one of them does, the other will try to one up them. Like children.

But after Tallulah’s speech on the tour… Phil doesn’t think they’ll be willing to help as much as their rival.

“Not a chance,” Phil sighs, leaning forward against the table, “They’re closest to the Capitol and treated best. They train for the games, and we have no victors—who they hold in such high esteem—on our side. Not to mention Tallulah snubbed them in her speech…”

“As she should,” Cellbit mutters.

“They’re all entitled jerks,” Bagi agrees, “They’d be good allies, but… it seems that won’t work out.”

“Still, if we remove all our Districts, it hurts everyone,” Phil says, “That’s eight of the twelve. No weaponry, no power, no coal, no food, no wood… it would be a big hit against the Capitol and other Districts.”

“And when we strike, the others will be encouraged to follow,” Cellbit finishes. He leans back in his chair with a wicked grin on his face, gray eyes shining. “I think we can do it.”

“Then we should,” Bagi says, “Sooner rather than later. The more time we have to get ready before the Capitol knows we’re coming, the better.”

“You’re a genius,” Tina comments, eyes on Bagi, who just smiles widely at her.

“So are you!”

Tina goes bright red, sinking down into her turtleneck to hide her cheeks. Phil wonders if it’s in Cellbit and Bagi’s DNA to be so hopelessly, unabashedly in love. He wouldn’t be surprised.

“Tomorrow,” Phil decides, “In the morning, I’ll tell everyone and we can start.”

They all seem to be in agreement on that.

~ ~ ~

The next day comes slowly. Phil struggles to sleep, and then he struggles to stay asleep, nightmares slipping in through the cracks in his defenses. Like always, Kristin is there to calm him down, to promise him safety until he falls back asleep. 

Still, he wakes up far too early. There isn’t even any natural light to urge him awake, but no matter how hard Phil tries, he can’t go back to sleep. His mind is awake. His bones are awake. So he must be awake.

That leads to Phil wandering the bunker so his mind doesn’t stray too far away. He tries to prepare as much as he can for breakfast.

He visits the garden to gather ingredients. He brings them to the kitchen for storage. He makes sure their communication systems are working in case the Capitol sends a broadcast—thanks to their District Three residents, they’ll know the Capitol’s move. The cafeteria is clean, so…

Phil’s work is pretty much done. Thankfully, now people are beginning to wake and start their days.

Niki, Chayanne, and Roier make their way to the kitchen to get a head start on breakfast. Pac and Mike are up before Pierre and head to whatever project they’d been working on last. 

From then on, time seems to speed by, dread churning away in Phil’s stomach with each smiling face he sees.

Is this peace really worth ruining?

Everyone is more or less happy here. If not happy, then safe. And that’s what all of them want, at the end of the day, isn’t it? For them and their loved ones to be safe. Because in this world, it’s hard to be happy. People are wise enough to know not to ask the universe for something impossible.

Revolution would put them all in danger. Can Phil really ask that of them, even if they all agree? It could mean death. It could mean more loss.

But if they wait here, unprepared while the Capitol’s power only grows? They’re just as likely to die a painful death.

Maybe it is time to shake things up…

“Phil!”

He blinks, Tallulah standing in front of him expectantly. She’s wearing that same old yellow sweater, brown curls hanging down past her shoulders, bleeding into the bright color. A plate is in her hands, some toast, butter, fruit, and soup all barely managing to fit on the surface. 

“Are you gonna eat?” Tallulah asks, tilting her head ever-so slightly.

“Of course I am,” Phil says, “Time must have… slipped away from me.”

Tallulah hums, accepting that, and heads off to claim a table for their little family. She stares at Phil and doesn’t start eating until he turns to get his own serving.

Once he does, he heads back to his family, taking a seat beside Kristin. Everyone is there at the table now, eating quietly. Tubbo sits with Tommy, the two boys muttering to each other every now and then. Chayanne and Tallulah are… peaceful, he would say. Neither upset nor happy. Content.

Techno, on the other hand, looks wholly displeased with the world. That seems to be his default expression as of late, not the thinly veiled smirk he usually wore. Phil wants to get it back.

So he shares a glance with Kristin and Missa, nodding.

This is it. 

Everyone seems to be finishing up their meals, pleasantly chatting. Over at their table, Cellbit, Bagi, and Tina seem to be waiting.

Best not to disappoint.

Phil mutters, excusing himself, which earns a slew of confused glances from the kids. But he ignores them, addressing the entire cafeteria, not just any one person.

Everyone quiets when he clears his throat.

“Hello everyone,” he starts, suddenly wanting to shrink into the ground, “I hope you’ve all enjoyed breakfast. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I feel there’s something we should discuss as a group.”

Phil swallows, trying to ignore all the eyes on him. It’s hard when he looks out and sees nothing but faces staring back, regardless of how friendly they are. 

“I think we’re all here for a reason,” Phil continues, “And I think that reason is good. We all want peace. We all want safety. And, because of the Capitol, we can never have that. Even those of us who’ve won, who’ve aged out, aren’t safe by proximity. We still care for the youth. We still get our hearts thrown in that arena year after year. And it’s not fair to anyone. Why should we be punished for something that happened long before any of us walked these lands? Why should we suffer the consequences while the Capitol citizens live in bliss, in luxury?

“I think it’s about time things change. And I believe we can do that,” Phil takes a breath, a little confidence backing his words. This isn’t so bad. Maybe he can be a leader of sorts. “If we push against them, gather the force of our homes and rally against them, then we can win. We can dismantle the games, make things fair. We could lead a revolution, if we set our minds to it—” Phil looks over at Techno, who smiles with restrained hope. It’s all Phil cares about right now, that smile. “And we can make things right.”

Cellbit is the first one to cheer, Bagi following suit, standing and clapping. Then Fit and Etoiles. Mouse and Foolish. Soon enough the whole room is grinning and shouting their agreement.

Phil’s heart pounds in his chest, a smile overtaking his face. He looks back at Kristin and Missa to see them clapping too, a look of hope and fear painting Tallulah’s face. 

It’s a lot to take in, for sure, but Phil wouldn’t have agreed, wouldn’t have started this if he wasn’t sure they could handle this. He would never put them in jeop—

All around the cafeteria, the screens flash to life. The Capitol’s logo—the silhouette of a fancy government building with lots of columns and archways. Their anthem plays—a short tune.

Everyone pays attention. It’s the first statement they’ve heard from the Capitol

Then the screen fades to show the face of the interviewer, sitting in a simple chair. The backdrop is homey, cream-colored and lined with plants. It’s different from the electric atmosphere of the interviews for the games. Less lively. Phil doesn’t think there are any people in the audience. 

“Hello, Capitol citizens,” the interviewer begins, more solemn than he usually is, “I’m sure you’ve heard a recent flight of victors since the closing of the victory tour.”

Yes, that would be them. It’s good to know their lack of a presence is noted, though. If the Capitol knows, to the point of mentioning it in broadcasts, then they know it’s an issue. That’s exactly what they want to create. 

“The stray victors have yet to be located, but if you see something, say something,” the man urges, “There are many beloved victors missing, spanning from The Beast to the newly crowned and highly anticipated Briared Rose. We, as much as you, want them safe.”

“Bullshit,” Cellbit huffs. It’s meant to be quiet, but with the entire room silent, everyone hears it. 

“But we are not here today to dwell on fear,” the announcer smiles, that charisma flooding back in, “On the contrary, I have some rather exciting news tonight to lighten all of our spirits. Straight from our beloved Federation itself.”

Any prize from the Federation is a calculated move to keep or gain power. The President is a vile man who profits off of other people’s deaths and hardship. In no way would he ever give even his most loyal citizens a gift simply because they were scared. 

He’d leave them out in the cold if he could, a promise that he’d give them fire and shelter on his tongue. But really the only fire he has is for himself, smoke blowing out of the chimney. The people believe him, though, and wait, freezing, in the snow.

That is not a man who should be in power.

“Please help me welcome a very special guest!” The announcer exclaims, grinning, “You know him, you love him, our very own Phoenix!”

Phil hasn’t heard of any Phoenix in the history of the nation. And anyone the Capitol loves is well-known, usually a public figure or victor. Phil knows all the victors, though… none of them are named that.

Unusual.

The camera pans out so the sides of the set can be seen. Someone walks in from backstage in a crisp white suit so blinding it draws the eye. But as soon as Phil drags his vision away, he—

He knows that face.

He knows every variation of that face because he watched it grow and change. He watched the laugh lines deepen and those eyes glimmer. He brushed out that unruly hair in the early mornings before school.

But Phil can’t get out a word, or even a sound because that’s—that’s Wilbur.

He tunes out the world around him, taking a step closer to the screen as Wilbur takes a seat. He looks blank—not happy, not afraid, just blank. There isn’t even a mask of confidence like the one he wore during the interview.

And he looks… fine. Phil can’t even see the places where he should have scars. There’s no slices on his face, no claw marks on his cheek. No remnants from the explosion.

That’s his son, his boy, through and through.

He’s alive. That’s all Phil has wanted, all he prayed for, all he wished for this entire time, and yet… something about it is so, so terrifying.

Wilbur sits in the chair. He looks too put together. Too perfect to be real. Almost like a doll, or more like a porcelain figurine—to be observed, high up on a shelf.

But one good hit will send the whole shelf tumbling, the porcelain shattering to the ground. And then it will never be the same, never perfect again.

“So,” the announcer says, “I’m sure everyone is as ecstatic to have you here as I am. But I’m sure some are rather… confused about this whole thing. Care to shed some light on that?”

Wilbur nods. Phil is right below the screen now, staring up at him. It feels like he’s always doing that—looking up at him. He remembers the day he realized Wilbur outgrew him. Techno too. Phil cried that day, but nobody ever knew it. Nobody knew how that small detail—that mere inch—undid him. 

“I don’t really know myself,” Wilbur begins. Phil lets out a sob at the words. That’s the voice he never thought he’d hear again. Back from the dead. “But the Capitol’s technology is amazing. They saved my life.”

No, no, that’s… all wrong. They took his life, or tried to. They’re greedy. They would only save him if they could gain something from it.

If this world has heroes, they certainly aren’t the Capitol.

“And we’re so glad they did,” the interviewer smiles, “You’re an absolute delight, and I must say, everyone was rooting for you in your games.”

Wilbur smiles, but it’s not a true one. His laugh is hollow. Despite this, he remains otherwise composed. Phil wishes he could know what is running through his mind.

But still, Wilbur’s hands shake. Anyone else would miss it, that old nervous habit. Not Phil. He sees it and knows without a shadow of a doubt this is truly his Wilbur. Because despite playing guitar, or pushing his brothers on the rope swing in the yard, or comforting others, or drawing a bowstring… Wilbur never quite shook that old tell.

And it’s telling Phil that Wilbur is nervous, if not terrified.

“I’m sorry to disappoint everyone,” he says, a tightness in his voice, “I didn’t win.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Wilbur agrees, “I suppose I am.”

“That’s the criteria for winning, Wilbur,” the interviewer laughs, “You’re a winner too. Our first double win, I guess, but then again, everyday is a surprise.”

Wilbur blinks, struggling to respond. For a moment, his face softens, and Phil can see the Wilbur he remembers. The one who laughs like the sun and with a wit as sharp as steel.

“She—” he mutters, but the words can’t come out, stuck in his throat. And then he shifts back to that hardened shell. “Yes, I suppose that is a first. And how very exciting that is. I am… eternally grateful to the Capitol for giving me this opportunity.”

“As are we,” the interviewer agrees, resting a hand on the arm of Wilbur’s chair, “Though I will say, you’ve come back to us at a rather troublesome time.”

“I have?” Wilbur shifts, and the suit must not fit as well as it should, because Phil swears that just for a moment, he saw mottled purple and yellow beneath the cuffs, right on his wrist.

Bruises. Bruises on Wilbur, bruises on Phil’s son, that—

Phil needs to… he doesn’t know what. Assassinating the President sounds like a good first step.

 “Yes,” the man answers, voice turning dismal, “You see, recently many victors from across the Districts have gone missing. Strong people, just like yourself, gone. Disappeared without a trace.”

Wilbur’s eyes widen. It seems he truly didn’t know. “Really? What happened?”

“We’re still not sure. But it’s happened in far too many Districts to be coincidence. And, in others, some of our most talented minds and workers have gone missing too.”

“What do you think happened to them?” Wilbur asks, brow furrowed. 

“Well, the popular theory is that they left,” the interviewer says, “To where? Why? We don’t know. All we can do is hope they’re okay and return to us soon.”

Wilbur nods but remains silent. Phil can tell he’s itching to say something, but there’s a barrier holding him back. Wilbur never held back before.

The interviewer notices his pause and picks up the conversation. “I know that every Capitol citizen knows this, but it’s clear you don’t. It’s been reported that our newest victor and your tribute partner, Tallulah, is among those missing. As well as your father and family.” His words are mournful, too gentle. And they’re dripping in condescending care. “If they could hear you now, what would you say to them?”

Something unreadable washes over Wilbur’s face. Even Phil can’t tell if it’s heartache or terror. But still, Wilbur nods the slightest bit. The camera switches so the only thing it sees is Wilbur and the blurry set behind him.

It’s like he’s staring into Phil’s soul. And Phil stares back, even though he shouldn’t, even though it hurts more than he could describe. Even as tears fill his eyes, he stares into Wilbur’s. 

“I’d want to make sure they’re okay,” Wilbur begins, slow as he cherry-picks his words, “And that they know I’m here. If they ran, whatever reason it is, there’s nothing to be afraid of. They can all come home. And we can—we can all be safe. And happy. Things can go back to how they were before.”

The interviewer smiles, nodding along. “This is true. With the Federation watching over us, there aren’t threats, in the Districts or the Capitol. They allow us to be safe, wouldn’t you agree?”

Wilbur nods, a slight sparkle flickering in his eyes like the moon over the ripples in a lake. “Of course.”

“Thank you for joining me this morning, Wilbur. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Wilbur says politely, though the words are a bit hollow. Meaningless.

Phil tunes out the broadcast as soon as Wilbur isn’t shown anymore. No sound, no picture, the world a simple blur in the grand scheme of things. It only kickstarts once more when the screen fades to black.

He turns, all eyes wide and on him, jaws hanging open and faces aghast. Phil can’t even bear to look at his family, to see the horror in their faces.

But still, Kristin is the first one to call out for him, shattering the tentative calm. From there, Phil can’t help but look at the table.

At Kristin’s strong face, at Missa totally out of his depth, at Techno’s eyes that have  hardened but face barely keeping composure. The younger boys who look around, searching for any answers, ignorant to the fact that nobody has any. But it’s Tallulah and her liquid brown eyes that gets him. Her tears don’t stop, mouth set in a tight line. She doesn’t make a sound and nobody lies to her in an attempt to comfort.

“I…” Phil croaks. But that’s as far as he gets.

He’s meant to be strong. He’s meant to be a leader. But there are no solutions here. What is he meant to say? His son, who he thought dead, is alive, but not himself.

What has Wilbur suffered? What have they done to him?

There is no solace he can give. No fancy words will help anyone, and in one fell swoop, the burning confidence he had moments ago has burnt out. 

Phil turns, head low, and leaves as quickly as his feet can carry him.

~ ~ ~

Somehow, Phil finds himself holed up in a storage closet. The darkness is almost a comfort. Eyes open, eyes closed, it’s all the same. A dark, all encompassing abyss. Nobody to talk to, no way of telling how much time has passed…

It’s the perfect place to crumble with no one to watch. Phil is not on a stage, he’s not in an arena, he’s just… alone.

Perfectly alone.

And if he cries enough, he can ignore the screaming of his heart as it dies in his chest.

God, what if he’s messed up? What if the Capitol hurt Wilbur because they left? But that doesn’t mention the months between the end of the games and their departure. What was happening then? Why did it steal away Wilbur’s light?

Because now he’s not himself. Everything felt slightly off, like looking at an image through a dusty mirror, backwards and blurry. Or a straw in a glass of water, not quite together.

Now the world is just dark. Phil’s lived in this bunker for a little more than a month now, and only now is he missing the sun.

After all, you only miss what you had when it’s gone. And now, despite Phil seeing it again, it’s well and truly gone. 

Wilbur has never felt so distant. Even when Phil thought him dead and gone, lost to the Capitol’s explosions, he was everywhere. In the floorboards in the house. In Techno’s braid he refused to change until he cut it. In every leaf ruffled by the breeze, in the mesmerizing sunset, and above all, in each of them.

But he was never in any of those places to begin with. Or maybe he was. But they’re not home anymore. Techno’s hair is a tad too short for a braid. They can’t see the trees, let alone the sky, and can’t feel the wind.

Now, they can’t even be themselves.

Wilbur is so far away.

There’s a knock on the door, and Phil’s breath catches in his throat, cries quieting. Nobody can know.

“Dad?” Techno’s voice floats through the door, so full of emotion, terrible, terrible emotion, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Phil rasps, clearing his throat, “How—how are you?”

Still, he makes no move to open the door.

“Fine,” Techno replies, “I’m not the one who locked himself in a dark closet. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be, Tech?” Phil laughs. 

“He’s alive.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I… don’t know anymore,” Techno mumbles, “Of course I’m happy he’s alive. He deserves to live. He deserves to come home, and maybe I’m a little selfish too, but…”

“He’s in the Capitol,” Phil supplies, “There’s something very wrong about all of this.”

“Yeah,” Techno agrees, voice dry, “This sorta thing doesn’t happen every day.” A moment of quiet passes. “I… I’ll be right back.”

Phil doesn’t so much as make a sound. He just listens to Techno’s fading footsteps and hopes that’s it. He just… he just has to take a minute to sort his thoughts, is all. 

But the universe is not so kind.

Soon enough, two pairs of footsteps approach. One leaves. There’s another knock, and then a quiet voice.

“Phil?” Kristin’s voice asks, soft as can be, “Why did you lock yourself in there?”

“Can’t a man just spend some time alone in a dark closet?” Phil huffs.

“Not if he’s not okay.”

“When’s the last time any of us were okay?”

“You and me?” Kristin asks, “Almost nineteen years ago, now.”

Ah. Right. With spring around the corner, that will bleed into summer. And from there, a new round of the games will be held. The sixty-ninth. Nineteen years since his own.

Almost twenty years… that’s hard to believe. The better half of his life has been spent trying to come to terms with the games. And here he is, still running from his past. No matter how far he goes, however, Phil can’t outrun it forever. It always catches up.

“Can I come in, Phil?” Kristin asks, “Just to talk?”

Phil nods, but she can’t see that, he can’t even see that. So he reaches up and unlocks the door, pushing on the handle and opening it a crack. The light is blinding.

Kristin slips in, leaving the door just barely ajar. The light lines her face, cutting through her eye and illuminating her soft smile. Phil pulls his legs to his chest, giving Kristin some more room. They’re mirror images, both in their seating and their grief.

“What are we meant to do?” Phil mutters, leaning his head back against the wall, “It feels like we only just got our footing. We just decided to fight back and now…”

“Now you’re scared to,” Kristin finishes, “Because of what it could mean for Wil.”

“Absolutely terrified,” Phil scoffs, “I don’t… I don’t know if you saw, but I think I saw bruises. And I don’t think the Capitol has enough technology to be rid of scars, he would have had some from the games, at least from the explosions. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all doused in makeup to hide them from the Capitol.”

Kristin is silent for a moment, resting her chin on her knees. “You’re probably right, you know.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“The Capitol sponsors death games every year,” Kristin says dryly, “This wouldn’t be new for them. But do you know what I think, Phil?”

Yes. Phil always wants to know what she thinks. He hangs on every word like a man dangling from a cliff, his only saving grace Kristin’s thoughts and speech.

She is his everything.

“Of course.”

“I think that if they’ve already hurt him, they’re not going to stop,” Kristin says, “Even if we went back, I don’t think they’d stop. Why would they? They would still have him, and because they would, they’d have power over us. They could hurt us by hurting him.”

“They’re already doing that,” Phil murmurs, choking out a stifled laugh, “Look at us, Kris. We’re not doing so hot.”

“Well, it certainly won’t stop if we give up,” she points out, “I bet my life on it. The only way to save Wilbur? To make sure nobody touches a hair on his head ever again? The only way to do that is to keep going. To fight and kill and take down the Capitol at any cost. We won’t know rest, and neither will Wilbur until the Federation is no more.”

Phil glances over at her, the way her hair blends into the shadows and her eyes shine like onyx. In his mind, he traces the curve of her face, or he would, if every time he looked at her he didn’t get lost in the labyrinth in her eyes.

And that is an impossible trap to get out of. Yet she does it so effortlessly.

“You are…” Phil trails off, trying to muster the right word, “Amazing, did you know that?”

Kristin smiles, her laugh watery. “You say that a lot.”

“I’m right, though.”

“You’re right about a lot of things.”

“Only you,” Phil argues, reaching out his hand. Kristin takes it without hesitation. It’s almost like second nature at this point—instinct. “Only when it’s you.”

Kristin smiles softly, eyes twinkling. “What would you say about what I think, then?”

“I’d say you’re right,” Phil says honestly, “The only place we know he’d be safe is with us. Nowhere else. I don’t trust anywhere else.”

“I don’t either,” Kristin whispers, “So we have to keep going. If we stop at any point, the Capitol wins, and we can’t afford that.”

Phil hums. There’s something itching at the back of his mind like a persistent pest that won’t leave.

“I… I’m sorry that it was him,” Phil breathes, eyes screwing shut. He presses his forehead to his knees. He squeezes Kristin’s hand, and she returns it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for him then, and I’m sorry I can’t now. If I—if I could, I would have volunteered. I would. I would have taken his place a million times over if it meant he was okay. Even if—if the games fucking terrify me to no end, even if they’re my own personal purgatory I can’t escape, I… I would. So long as he was safe.”

Kristin wordlessly pulls his hand to her lips and kisses it, letting go and dragging him into a hug. Phil’s head rests on her shoulder, so he has the perfect spot to hear what she has to say. And, just like all the times before, her words will save him. Forever and always.

“You couldn’t have done anything,” she whispers, “This is what the Capitol did, not you. They don’t let victors compete for reasons, okay? You couldn’t get around that. No one could. And all I want is for all of my boys to be okay,” she pauses for a moment, the hug tightening, “And that includes you, Phil.”

He returns the hug, letting a few stifled sobs out. So much has gone on today. Phil feels the guilt sting him with every breath he takes, a poison filling his bloodstream that will surely kill him.

But Kristin is his antidote. She shoulders the weight so he can breathe easy. She is… life itself, and Phil will never know what he did to deserve her. But he does know she would be upset if he thought like that, so he remains with his thoughts in his mind, locked away. 

“Thank you,” he manages, “For being here. For being you.”

“Always,” Kristin mutters fiercely, “I will never leave your side, Phil. Till death do us part, remember?”

Oh, he does. He could never forget one of the happiest days of his life. That would be a crime against the very fabric of his world itself.

“Of course I do.”

“Good,” she replies lightly, “Now how about we get out of this closet and do something about all this?”

~ ~ ~

The plan is quite simple. One victor from each District will return home to incite rebellion. There are plenty of spare jets here, an eerie reminder that whatever happened to the people here before, it wasn’t something they had to escape from. Or perhaps they didn’t have the time.

Either way, their planes are intact.

Cellbit insists flying is second nature and anyone can do it. He barely gives them a rundown before saying they’re ready to go.

Etoiles, Fit, Mouse, Quackity, Roier, Carre, Cellbit, and Phil. They’re leaving soon to sway the Districts to their side.

One from each District. Only one.

It’s safer that way, smarter. Not all their eggs will be in one basket. Sure, there are people like Fit and Carre who are largely alone in their Districts, but most of them have some sort of person to succeed them. Someone close, or someone who’s suffered. Sometimes both.

Phil wouldn’t let Tallulah out there alone to do it. Not in a million years. She’d gotten mad and stormed off, but why would Phil send her out? What kind of parent would he be? He thinks it was the right call.

Baghera was their first option for Two, as she’s a bit more sociable, but she denied, citing her fear of flying as reason. Not wanting to crash the plane is a good enough reason for not wanting to fly it, especially with no training, but… well, Phil isn’t sure. He still thinks Baghera would have been a slightly better fit.

They can only hope Etoiles will do a good job and pull through. Knowing him, he won’t come back until he’s succeeded in his task.

Phil just hopes it doesn’t take too long to convince them.

He’s the last one to take off—last District, shortest journey, and the one who needs the most time to fly the plane, funnily enough. But eventually, Phil manages it. And it’s smooth sailing. Or flying, rather.

Honestly, it’s… nice to be in the air. There’s nothing up here, not even the other jets. For a moment, everything is quiet. 

Up here, there is no Capitol, there is no death, there is no hardship. Just the bright blue sky, clouds, and the landscape rolling below. Phil focuses on piloting the jet more than anything, but he makes sure to take it all in. It’s not often he gets to be in control of such a thing, such an experience.

But there is little time to enjoy it. Phil is on a mission, one he can’t fail.

Go to Twelve, give a speech, rally the people, and get out. If they all unite the Districts before the Capitol realizes, then they can all fight back.

All it takes is a spark. And Phil has the matches to ignite the flame.

Before long, he sees the familiar mountains that border the northernmost edge of Twelve. From there, the land becomes forests, dotted with great trees.

The town is an easy place to spot. It’s settled in a plain void of trees, Victor’s Village in a clearing beside it. Against the vast, sprawling landscape, it’s unnatural—a blemish.

Phil manages—after a while—to land the jet within the clearing. It’s empty, though clearly, the houses have been searched. Phil stops by home to see if they forgot anything, only to see it a mess.

Curtains are drawn, chairs moved around, and drawers left ajar. Clearly Peacekeepers ransacked the place in an attempt to find any hints on where they went. It’s a good thing Kristin burnt their papers.

But there is nothing of use to Phil here now. Just the remnants of happier times embedded in the walls, in the smell of the air. Memories play like movies throughout these halls and rooms.

A few days ago, Phil would have rooted himself here like a statue and let the vines curl around him as the house gets reclaimed. The ivy would strangle him, lichen dotting his skin in patches, and the thorns piercing his arteries, letting his blood flow out and water the floorboards. Then he would be as cold as a statue, to be sure. But at least he would be surrounded by the shadows of love and light that once ran wild.

Now it’s different. Now, Phil has a reason to fight, hoping that life can be restored. Maybe even be made better.

He has a new lease on life he won’t be wasting.

Phil leaves the old house quickly after that, not wanting to linger with the ghosts of the past. It can collect dust and burn to the ground for all he cares. It’s just a shell. The life, the core that made it a home? That lies elsewhere.

Back in District Thirteen, and, much to Phil’s chagrin, the Capitol.

But that can be fixed.

He slinks off toward town, pulling his hood low over his face. If there is one thing Phil can’t risk, it’s being recognized too soon. If a Peacekeeper finds him, it could prove disastrous. He has to keep his head down and get to the mayor. From there, it’s easy.

Or so he hopes. Things don’t tend to be easy for Phil. He doesn’t think that will change starting now.

So Phil skims the outskirts of town, vying for the mayor’s office. The Peacekeepers are easy to pick out and avoid, especially when Phil knows these streets and alleys like the back of his own hand.

It’s not long before he has his sights on the mayor’s office.

On the edge of town, it’s the nicest building aside from the Justice Building, which… isn’t… saying much at all, really. It pales in comparison to the buildings in One or even Nine. But for Twelve, it’s nice, and that’s what matters.

The mines are just to the north. Close. Perfect for a distraction.

Phil slips in through a window he manages to prop open. Why it was even unlocked in February is beyond him, but Phil isn’t a complainer. Not when good fortune is served on a silver platter, at least.

He lands quietly, leaving the window open just a crack. Not enough to be visible, but enough so he can easily open it if need be.

Now he just has to make it to the mayor.

For such an ‘important’ figure in the District, there is a distinct lack of security, barring the two Peacekeepers at the front entrance. Phil supposes it makes sense—the mayor is simply a figurehead, and could be easily replaced by anyone. All that matters is that whoever is in office is a representative of the District, or whatever that means. 

Besides, the Federation really only cares about their own power in the Capitol. That’s why there are a lot of Peacekeepers during the Reaping and Victory Tours. Those are the real measures of the Capitol’s power, not some diplomatic puppet. 

However, the mayor won’t have loyalties to the President. They will more than likely feel more allegiance to their District than anything else, since they would grow up with their people, never once setting foot in the Capitol, lest they’re a victor themselves. But even then, the Capitol would not reduce such an important celebrity to such a menial, empty position.

Phil heads upstairs, right for the only door on the terrace—a big one engraved with thin lines of gold, like every other mayor’s office in the Districts. He approaches and knocks, waiting politely for a response. As if he’s not on a schedule.

Muttering comes from the other side, and then the door is thrown open, a fair-haired woman mid eye roll. “I told you, I don’t kn—” She meets Phil’s eyes, and startles, pulling him into the office and shutting the door. “What are you doing here? Where did you go?”

“None of your business,” Phil answers, “Though I would appreciate it if you could lend me a hand, being the mayor and all.”

“Depends on the favor,” the mayor says, sitting on her desk. Her gray eyes look weary, older than they usually are, from what Phil’s seen on the odd trip to the market.

“I need to speak to the people,” Phil says, “Without interference from the Peacekeepers. Ideally, all the mine workers would be there too, but—”

“So I send someone over to pull them out,” the mayor cuts in, “They say there was a cave in, a nasty one that could jeopardize all future coal production. The Peacekeepers, as the only ones capable of doing so, are tasked with checking it out. If I did that, what would it be for?”

Phil smiles. She’d make a fantastic politician were things not rigged, the people handed empty positions with not true meaning. She’s shrewd, cunning, and passionate.

“I think it’s about time things change around here, don’t you?” Phil asks, “No more games… that sounds appealing, for starters.”

“Are you radical, Phil?” The mayor smirks, “Interesting. Okay, I’ll bite. I won’t lie and say I’m not intrigued. Let me send over one of my guys. As soon as the miners are back, you can start your little speech.”

Phil grins at her in return. “Thank you. It’ll be worth it, I swear.”

“I have no reason at all to doubt you,” she smiles, “I’m gonna head to another office, get someone over to the mines. I’ll be right back, then we can wait for the right moment.”

“Sounds perfect.”

While she’s gone, Phil slips the communicator from their tech geniuses at the base into her desk.

A rebellion needs cohesion, after all. It must communicate with their leaders. The mayor will find it later. Phil doesn’t need to tell her.

As soon as she’s back, the waiting begins. 

~ ~ ~

Phil stands atop the stage outside the Justice Building. Everyone is gathered around, surprised to see him, curious as to why he’s returned.

There’s not a Peacekeeper in sight. There’s a short window where Phil can convince the people, but after that, the Peacekeepers will be back, and Phil will have to go. 

Steeling himself, Phil approaches the microphone. He taps on it, testing it and crackling filling the air. It gathers everyone’s attention fast.

“Hello everyone,” Phil begins, “I know it must be a shock to see me after a couple of months. If you don’t already know, my family—along with some of the other victors—have fled. But we are not selfish enough to keep that peace to ourselves. We want it for everyone. We want it nationwide. No more Hunger Games, no more tyranny. Just equality throughout the nation, whether District or Capitol.”

The people whisper to their neighbors. Twelve always suffers in the games, the odds never in their favor when compared to the others, especially the Careers. They’re the easy pickings. The first ones out.

Never in their lives have they had hope. At least… not before Phil won. Not before Tallulah won.

“Other victors are gathering the support of the other Districts as I speak to you,” Phil says, “We will not be alone should we choose to act. And I believe it’s in our best interest to do so. If we deny the Capitol and allied Districts our coal, we can keep it for ourselves! How would that feel? To work for ourselves and our families? We are important. We are strong. And I know how the games can affect a person, whether a victor or participant. Parent or child or sibling. All they do is take. None of us want that for our friends, our family, our neighbors. I’m done wondering if I’m going to lose another child come summertime! And I’m sure you are too! It’s not fair we fear our children up and send them off to die. I say no more death. No more violence for the youth, lest they choose it. No more letting others dictate our lives. It’s time we take it into our own hands.”

Phil pauses for a breath, and in that moment of quiet, some of the people shout in agreement. And then more. Children cling to their parents, and fathers and mothers look down at their heads, emotions swirling in their eyes. Words evade them, but their looks are enough.

“Disarm the Peacekeepers!” Phil shouts, “Take their weapons! Form a resistance, and don’t let anyone sway you otherwise! Live for yourselves, for once in your lives! Above all, don’t lose courage, don’t lose hope, and don’t break. We are stronger than them, stronger than coal, stronger than stone, stronger than diamond. Remember that! We will win. That future we so desire… we can forge it!”

The people in front of him cheer, screaming, applauding, and smiling. Something dances in their eyes… something Phil hasn’t seen before in the dull eyes of the residents of Twelve. It looks like hope.

Then they start chanting.

“Angel! Angel! Angel!” They cry.

Not of death. He’s no harbinger, no omen. He’s simply an angel to them. He’s not quite Phil, but… it’s better.

Even the mayor applauds, joining in. It’s a sight to see. Twelve has never been more lively. And Phil… well, he caused that. He gave them the means to liberate themselves. It’s been a long time coming, they just needed a push.

Phil strides over to the mayor. “Lead them,” he whispers, “Everyone knows you, everyone trusts you. Keep them safe and their spirits high. If you need any hideouts… there should be some caves around here that are safe. Maybe the mines.”

“I’ll do my best,” the mayor promises, “Twelve will always stand by you, Angel.”

With a smile, Phil nods. He looks over the crowd for a moment, pumping his fist in victory.

Then he spies the Peacekeepers returning. They’re a ways off, but on the move. Phil should get going. Now, if possible.

“The Peacekeepers are coming,” he tells the crowd gathered, “Now is your chance—free Twelve!”

They disperse, headed straight for the incoming threat. The mayor goes too, right in the middle, shouting orders already. Children rush to safety. Some parents go with. Most stay.

But Phil… he leaves. As much as it pains him, he has to. So he turns and runs the other way. Gunfire rings out behind him. Phil can’t tell if it’s from the civilians or Peacekeepers. He hopes it’s the former. 

Phil’s feet carry him far away. Soon, he’s back at Victor’s Village. He darts to the jet as soon as it’s within sight.

After a quick once-over, making sure there aren’t any unwanted stowaways, Phil takes off.

He’s going home.

~ ~ ~

Every mission is a startling success. By the time Etoiles lands, everyone is back and celebrating.

Those who stayed set up a little party, whether to ease their losses or commemorate their triumphs. It’d work either way.

There’s food, drinks, laughter, some games for everyone, and just an all around air of joy.

If only Tallulah wasn’t a little stormcloud in the corner. She shrugs even Chayanne away, and he comes right over to Phil, tugging at his sleeve.

“Dad,” he says, frowning, “Something’s wrong with Lulah.”

Phil sets down his glass, excusing himself from Quackity, Foolish, and Mouse. He leads his son to the edge of the cafeteria, kneeling to be at his level.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Chayanne exclaims, shuffling back and forth, “She’s been off the whole party. She won’t play with the other kids, won’t talk, and no matter what I do she just…”

He gives up in frustration. Phil glances over at Tallulah, sitting alone with an irritated expression.

“Sits with a scowl?” He suggests.

“Yeah,” Chayanne sighs, “Dad, I’m worried about her.”

“We all are. And you worry constantly,” Phil says, ruffling his hair, “But you’re a kid too, Chayanne.”

“I’m almost fourteen!”

“In another month, yes,” Phil agrees, “And then Tallulah will be thirteen shortly after. But either way, you’re still kids. It’s kind of you to worry, Chayanne, really, but you need to think of yourself sometimes too. I can go check on her, but… how are you doing?”

Chayanne blinks, his eyes shifting from blue to gray to green and back again. Phil’s never been able to tell just what color they are, and though it’s a little embarrassing at times… it’s special. Just like his youngest.

Right now, though, those watercolor eyes brim with tears. Chayanne clenches his fists at his side.

“Everything is my fault, Dad,” he mutters, looking down at the ground.

It takes everything in Phil not to rebuke that right away. If he’s ever to truly make Chayanne feel better, he needs to get to the root of this thought, or else it will just regrow.

“Why do you say that, mate?”

“Because…”

Phil raises his brows, smiling encouragingly. “Because?”

“Because I asked Wilbur to protect Tallulah!” He cries out, looking up with tears in his eyes, “I—I asked him too when we said goodbye. And then—and then everyone said he—he threw Lulah into the water and did-didn’t make it out, and—”

“Oh, Chayanne,” Phil mumbles, reaching out and pulling him in a hug. Chayanne leans his head against Phil’s, and he holds on tight, grabbing at the back of Phil’s shirt. “Kid, that wasn’t you. I guarantee you he wasn’t thinking about that.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do,” Phil mumbles, rubbing circles on Chayanne’s back. A bitter thought enters his head—these aren’t new thoughts. It’s too thought out to be a new thing, and up until recently, they thought Wilbur was dead…

All this time, Chayanne was carrying the burden of thinking his favor got his big brother killed. And still, he put others first. He made sure Kristin, Tommy, and Techno were okay. When Phil and Tallulah made it home, he was worried about her.

And he thought—

“Chayanne,” Phil whispers, “You know it was never your fault, right? Never. Even when we didn’t know he was alive, it wasn’t—”

“I thought I killed him,” Chayanne says with a shuddering breath, “And even if I didn’t, I—”

“Chayanne,” Phil interrupts, “Mate, why didn’t you tell me? Or Mom?”

“Because you guys were sad too,” Chayanne mutters, “I didn’t—I didn’t want to make it worse! I didn’t want you to hate me. I’m supposed to protect everyone, Dad, and I—I didn’t.”

“That is a burden too big for your shoulders, Chayanne,” Phil says quietly, pulling back. He wipes away some of the tears rolling down his son’s cheeks. “Nobody could ever hate you. The only person we want you to protect is yourself. This world isn’t meant for you to carry, okay? You’re only going to get hurt if you try.”

“But you do it just fine,” Chayanne argues, sniffling.

“I don’t,” Phil huffs a laugh, “I really don’t. But I try, because I’m an adult. And I’m your dad. And it’s my job to take care of you boys and your sister. It’s impossible to do, clearly, but… I still try because I love you. When you’re a bit older, you can protect people. I promise. But for now, all I ask is that you be a kid.”

Chayanne appears apprehensive, brows knit close and breathing not quite evened out. He rubs his eyes and crosses his arms. “You’re—you’re sure?”

“Positively,” Phil grins, “And no matter what happens with Wil? Not your fault. The only people we have to blame are the Federation for hosting the games, okay?”

After a second’s thought, Chayanne nods. Phil brings him in one last time for a hug before sending him off to Kristin and Missa.

Now to check on Tallulah.

He sits beside her at the table, staring out over the party. It’s a sad view from the outside, all the adults chattering away. Now, Missa has Chayanne on his shoulders, pretending to be some monster for Pomme and Dapper to attack. The other kids help too, the adults pausing their conversations to laugh and point out the kids’ actions.

Yet Tallulah is here. Alone.

“Is he alright?” She asks, eyes still on the festivities. They don’t move away for a second, like she has them glued to the cheer.

“Yeah. He just had a bit of a hard moment,” Phil says softly, “Not quite my place to say, but I’m sure he’d tell you if you asked.”

Tallulah hums, leaning an elbow on the table and propping her head up. Her glass of water is practically untouched, as is her food, even the things she actually likes.

“What’s up with you?” Phil asks.

“Me? Nothing,” Tallulah mutters, a little too void of emotion to be truthful, “Why?”

“You’re not acting yourself,” Phil says, “I can see something is wrong from across the room. You love playing with the others! So why aren’t you?”

“Do I always have to be happy?” Tallulah asks, a little bite in her voice, “Do I always have to be socializing?”

“Not at all,” Phil says calmly. But his concern only grows. Even in her most tense moments, Tallulah is sarcastic at worst, never snappy. “Sometimes people don’t feel like interacting with others. I get it. And you don’t have to be happy by any means. That doesn’t mean you should have to be sad, though.”

“Who says I’m sad?”

“You don’t have to say,” Phil mutters, “It’s obvious when you’re not yourself.”

Tallulah huffs, tugging at her hair. She looks down and curls it around her fingers. Then she watches it bounce off as she lets go. She mumbles something beneath her breath that she only repeats when Phil asks her to. 

“What is there to celebrate?”

Phil blinks in surprise, furrowing his brow. “A lot. We have most of the Districts united against the Capitol. That’s never been done since they’ve come into power.”

“So what?” Tallulah breathes, “That won’t stop anything.”

“But it’s a start,” Phil counters, “A big one. We can tear down the Capitol, dismantle the Federation, abolish the games. Look at everyone we have here. Imagine this, all the time, everywhere. Don’t you believe we can do that?”

Tallulah shrugs. “It’s a nice thought. I just… what if it’s not enough?”

“What if destroying the government isn’t enough?” Phil repeats, smile tugging at his lips, “I think it might be a bit overkill, if we’re being honest.”

“No, I mean…” Tallulah sighs, switching her head to her other hand, “Nevermind.”

“Tallulah,” Phil starts, “There's clearly more to it than that. Don’t be as stubborn as your brother.”

“Why are we celebrating when Wilbur’s not back?” Tallulah asks, quiet and wrought with a bitter sadness. It flows through the air and infects all who hear. “Every second he’s not here, we don’t know what’s happening to him. What if this just pushes them to hurt him? What if—what if this time, they kill him? And we can’t get him back?”

It’s an echo of Phil’s very own thoughts. It tears him apart every single day to think that in getting Wilbur back, they’re just putting him in more danger. Phil wants to blink and have his son safe in his arms. But that’s not how this works.

He has to work, he has to risk it, he has to take matters into his own hands. And then, and only then, can everyone rest.

“I think about that a lot,” Phil admits, “But I find it’s better to not think about it, funnily enough. Kristin made a point to me the first day we found out. She said that even if we give up, surrender, or never did anything in the first place, they’d still have Wil. He’d still be in danger. The only way to stop that is if he’s with us.”

Tallulah hums, frowning. “That’s not fair.”

“I know it’s not.”

“He should be safe without the danger.”

“He can’t be. The Capitol won’t allow that. All he is to them is a power chip.”

“But he’s a person,” Tallulah argues, leaning back and clenching her fists on the table, “They can’t… they shouldn’t treat him like that!”

“But they can,” Phil says, “And they will. Because they have the power to do so. All those Capitol citizens see one of their favorite tributes alive, praising their city and government. They see him unharmed. They think nothing of it because they don’t know him like you and I do. So they’re happy. That’s why the Federation set him up with that interview—to strengthen their people’s feelings about them.”

Just a pawn in their games, another piece to move. Like any tribute or any victor. They won’t be able to escape it unless they flip the table, jumbling all the pieces.

“What if we can’t help him?” Tallulah asks, some of the tension seeping out of her, “What if we’re too late, and—”

“No more what-ifs, mate,” Phil smiles, albeit a bit sadly, “We will bring Wilbur home. That’s a promise, okay? We won’t stop until he’s home, there aren’t any games, and anyone who hurt either of you is gone. Sound good?”

Tallulah looks up at him with her big brown eyes that seem to hold so much grief and hope in them at once. They make her look older than she is. Or maybe that’s the darker circles under her eyes. Has she been sleeping—?

“Yeah,” Tallulah finally says, “That… that sounds good.”

“Fantastic,” Phil smiles a bit brighter, “Now, if you want you can keep hangin’ out over here, but if you’d like, I think the others could use your help saving Chayanne from the Missa monster.”

Tallulah thinks on it for a split second before leaping to her feet with a tiny smile, bounding over to charge into battle. Phil stands too, slower, and heads back over to the friends he left.

He’s fixed all he can for now.

“Where were we?” Phil asks.

Foolish looks all too eager to answer. “I was saying we need a name! The rebellion just isn’t cutting it. All the cool things have names, or at least an acronym. We should be… a bunch of losers against society. Yeah, that works!”

Mouse thinks about it. “Abolas?”

Foolish shakes his head. “No A.”

“Bolas?” Phil asks, tilting his head to the side. 

Quackity bursts into laughter.

~ ~ ~

From there, they spur things into action.

The victors meet in a boardroom, the faces of the mayors projected around the space as holograms. The entire day, they discuss how to go about their rebellion.

Each district needs to go about it a different way depending on proximity to the Capitol and landscape.

Two, for example, is closer to the Capitol. It will need to be monitored to ensure its safety while it gets its weapons to the other Districts by hijacking trains.

In the meantime, they plan for Phil to broadcast a speech to every District, One through Twelve. They have to know what’s going on so they can make their choices.

Ideally, Six joins them. Transportation is valuable, and they could use all the trains and jets in their arsenal. It would hit the Capitol hard.

Once all is said and done, Phil follows Pac and Mike to a recording room. They chatter excitedly and gush over the technology in the studio.

“We should be able to make it look like you’re anywhere,” Mike explains, “There’s a lot of data here from all over the Districts we can use.”

“Really?” Phil asks, looking over his shoulder. A few clicks, and the area the cameras are pointing at changes. It looks like the Justice Building in Three. But the space in the bunker doesn’t change one bit. “Wicked.”

“We figured it’s about time we use the Capitol’s strategy,” Pac says, a little further down the console, “One message to every District. The Capitol will hear about it through the Peacekeepers, but that’s fine. They’ll know soon enough.”

“And they have eyes everywhere,” Mike adds, “I swear they’d follow me home from work.”

“Didn’t you think there was a ghost following you the other day?” Phil asks. An awful lot seems to happen to Mike, in retrospect.

“Yeah, but I was there for the ghost,” Pac says, “That one was real.” He says it casually, as if a ghost in these bunkers isn’t something to worry about.

“Us being haunted aside,” Mike says, “We’re ready whenever you are. If you want to wing it, or want to prepare, you can do it.”

“Why don’t we experiment?” Phil suggests, leaving the consoles and heading out to the stage-like area, “We don’t have to get it perfect the first try, yeah? Let’s have some fun with it.”

The two others grin, getting to work.

Phil can see what they’re doing on a screen above them. He laughs as they change the background to the President’s office. For a while, he plays along, mocking the man and his speeches.

They cycle through a lot of locations while Phil practices what he’d want to say. He tries not to laugh when they try to line up the location to his words.

District Six is mentioned, and all of a sudden Phil is standing on some tracks, a train barreling him down mid-sentence.

It feels more like slacking off or playing than work. Phil doesn’t think they actually progressed at all. But in a weird way… they kind of did? He thinks he knows exactly what to say.

“Weird question,” Phil says, “But does that have anything from my house in Twelve?”

Pac and Mike search through the database for a bit, Phil keeping his eyes on the screen. He watches as it shifts to their living room. Not just a random one in some victor’s house, but theirs.

If he squints, he can see the pictures on the mantle and tables. They’re mostly of him and Kristin, and the twins when they were just babies. It’s an older version of their house, then, with no Tommy and no Chayanne.

A smile crosses his face. He turns to look around, but it’s not real. There is no couch to sit on the arm of. The smile persists, a little sadder now.

“Yeah, this is it,” he says, a bit louder than he normally would, “This is home.”

After a quick look at the screen above, Phil lets his memories carry him through the layout. He stops between the couch and the coffee table. When he glances down, he can’t see the picture of Techno and Wilbur on the table. In reality, it’s somewhere in a chest in he and Kristin’s room, but Phil still wishes it were here. He smiles like it is.

“I got to raise my family in this house,” Phil continues, “All the tears and laughter and conversations this room saw…” he laughs lightly, standing up, “Lives were lived here. We didn’t have to worry about anything. Just what was for breakfast the next day. And, like all of you… the games.”

Phil goes to continue, but bright laughter interrupts him. He turns to look, and on the screen in front of him, he sees Wilbur chasing Techno, the two boys giggling as they run around the coffee table and into the kitchen.

Part of Phil wants to follow them. He wants to run and chase them, scooping them up in his arms as they squeal. They’d kick their legs and he’d kiss their heads before plopping them onto the couch.

But he can’t. The past isn’t inhabitable by the living. There’s no getting it back.

“When my kids were born, I was terrified,” Phil says, “They were so small, so perfect, so precious. I was worried I’d scare them, or hurt them, purely because of what happened in my games. They affected me more than I’ve ever let anyone know. I think that’s something all tributes have in common, Career or not. And families, they feel that, whether their kid comes home or not.

“I never thought my boys would be in the games, but it scared me to hell that one day it would be one of them called,” Phil says, “It’s just… you see them when they can hardly open their eyes, when they learn to talk and keep saying random words, when they lose their first tooth… all these moments, and it’s impossible to imagine them being in the arena. Hurting. Fighting. Killing. Surviving. Dying. And it’s something nobody should ever have to worry about. It’s cruel to both parent and child and everyone around if we raise the next generation just for them to be culled in a death match!

“This affects all of us, from Twelve to One. I don’t care if you train your children for glory, they still die. They still feel the lingering demons in their heads every second after—memories, voices, images… nobody leaves that arena unscathed because nobody ever leaves. Someone goes in and another person with the same name and same face comes out. But tell me, if this is the noble thing to do, why is the Capitol exempt? What did the people of One do? Two? Three? None of the Districts did anything, and yet we suffer and die because of our ancestors’ hypothetical actions. The Capitol calls them mistakes, but maybe they were right. Because the Federation is still in charge, and every year at least twenty three children die as fucking sacrifices. That is not a government anyone should follow. That is not just.”

Phil spreads his arms out, glancing around the room he can still see clear as day, the rays of sunset poking through the windows, tinging the memory a soft orange. If he squints, specks of dust float in the air like fireflies.

“Everyone deserves that peace. Up until the 68th games, I had that. A family, love, laughter, light… and I won’t lie and say it didn’t make things a hell of a lot better. But up until now, I thought that was a privilege. I thought that was something special that only I had. Maybe it was the universe taking pity on me for my games, I don’t know. But that’s not the case. Everyone has people they love, and who love them in return without hesitation. The difference lies only in location. In the Capitol, those bonds are sacred. Anywhere else? There one day, gone the next. The truth is, it’s possible. The Capitol lives that reality every single day. They refuse to share it, so we must take it.

“The other victors and I know this. We live it everyday, where we are—friends and families, finally safe. Finally together. We want to spread and share this with all of you in the Districts. No more dying in arenas. No more fear. Just one world, where the people can decide for themselves what they want and who they want to lead them. That’s all we want, and we won’t settle for less, even if we must take it. Unified Districts would be ideal, and every bit counts. We only need four Districts left to be whole, but I will not name names. You know who you are. I’ll just say this—my enemies are the only ones who will witness the Angel of Death. Everyone else will merely see the saving wings of an angel.”

Phil takes a deep breath. He thinks that was all he wanted to say. Hopefully it works. That’s all he wants right now… for the remaining Districts to join them. That way, they can all rally together against the Capitol. 

And bring Wilbur home.

Almost instinctively, Phil looks back over his shoulder, as if expecting that younger version of his eldests to come barreling around a nonexistent corner.

But then he turns around, and through the glass, he sees Pac and Mike smile.

~ ~ ~

Things progress even quicker after that.

Six commandeers their trains, killing every Peacekeeper in the way. Their express line to the Capitol is blown up as well. No trains come back, none leave. They head over to Nine to get in contact with the base in Thirteen to announce their official entry into the rebellion.

Or Bolas, as Foolish, Baghera, Cellbit, and Charlie insist on calling it. Phil doesn’t think that will catch on with the other Districts.

After Six joins, Three follows. They send a message of their own to Twelve confirming. Between Six and Three, every District in the rebellion is able to communicate and have updated technology. It’s a big step.

That’s not to say it’s easy. It’s really not.

The Capitol strikes back. Peacekeepers flood One and Four, making progress there harder. They also line the edges of Districts to try and invade, though the people have been able to fend them off. There are casualties, yes, but… the people don’t give in.

Phil couldn’t be prouder.

Five, Seven, and Nine try their best to infiltrate and aid Four and One, just in case they need and want help. Two prepares to launch an assault, since they’re the closest and wealthiest District to the Capitol, not to mention they’d be supplying weapons anyway. This way, the munitions they make can be bigger and better.

The Capitol, of course, directly attacks Districts. They try to start forest fires in Seven. They bomb Twelve’s mines. They attempt to raze Eleven and Nine’s crops, but the people aren’t happy and beat them back.

But when the President strikes, he cuts deep and leaves no foe forgotten.

“Phil,” Etoiles enters the room abruptly. Techno had come to try and convince him to help fight, a rather heated topic. An interruption wasn’t expected, but if Etoiles is interrupting… it must be serious.

“What happened?” Phil asks, standing at once. Techno follows his lead like a shadow.

“Another broadcast from the Capitol is starting,” Etoiles reports.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. He starts leading the way out of the room, Phil and Techno following down the corridors until they reach the main hall.

Some people are there already—Fit, Pac, Mike, Charlie, Mariana, Carre, Mouse… but not everyone. Phil can’t help but wonder where Kristin and the kids are. She’d try and guide them away from the screens if she could, at the very least.

The Capitol’s logo fades away. The interviewer’s face takes its place.

“Now, I hate to have to admit it, but it’s true. Our victors, our beloved champions, have abandoned us. The Districts gather and cooperate to tear asunder our ways of living,” he begins, mournful.

As if any of them had any allegiance to the Capitol in the first place. Any gratitude they had was manufactured to keep the Federation off their backs.

“Rest assured, however, the President is going to great lengths to fend off these dissenters. The Federation wants life to continue on as smoothly as possible, so we’re going to be holding special events throughout the Capitol that work around curfews and the Peacekeepers’ barricades, just for all of you.”

He pauses, smiling, as if waiting for the information to set in. Or maybe he’s taking cues from offscreen. It’s unsettling when there is no thunderous applause to fill the silence.

“But before we release the schedule for that, we have another treat for all of you lovely citizens,” he says, something excited in his tone, “So welcome back our lovely Capitol’s favorite hero, the Phoenix!”

Shit.  

Phil should have known they’d bring Wilbur out again. It was only a matter of time before the President used his greatest weapon to try and finish them off without even lifting a finger. It’s infuriating.

“Techno,” Phil mutters, eyes glued to the screen as Wilbur walks on, face as blank as it was before, “Go—”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Techno hisses, “I’m not missing a moment, so don’t waste your breath.”

Phil opens his mouth to argue, but he can’t find the words. Wilbur takes his seat, in a similar white suit as last time, though the dress shirt beneath it is black as night, like his shoes.

And his gloves. Those are new, and they make Phil’s skin crawl. All they mean is that they have something to hide. Bruises, cuts, or any sort of injury… not knowing is a fatal wound in and of itself.

“You come to us right when we need you, eh?” The announcer starts, “It seems whenever things take a turn, we can count on you to lighten things up a bit, Wilbur.”

In response, Wilbur straightens as if realizing he’s on camera, blinking almost lethargically as his mind catches up with the words. “It’s my pleasure, really. I do what I can to make the people happy.”

“And you do so effortlessly,” the man assures him, “I’ve talked to so many people, both staff and not, and they absolutely adore hearing from you.”

Wilbur smiles, releasing a shaky breath as if laughing. It’s more bashful than anything. Humble. “Well, as I said, it’s my pleasure. The least I could do, really, when the Capitol has given me so much.”

Phil doesn’t know how he can say that. His boys know the Capitol continues the games despite having the option to cancel them at any moment. They resent that part of the world as much as Phil does.

The Capitol doesn’t give, unless they have cause to. They merely take. They’re experts at that. But for Wilbur to say these things so effortlessly, without even having to think?

No matter how Phil wracks his brain, he can’t muster a reason. All he knows is they did something to change him.

And that terrifies him more than anything, really.

“Well, we need some of your positivity right now,” the interviewer smiles, “It’s a scary world out there, Wilbur. We can only hope the Districts can learn to see the world as you do.”

Wilbur’s brows furrow like he does when he’s determined about something big. Like when he sets his mind to writing a song he can’t get quite right or when he was teaching himself different ways of braiding. 

“I hope they can too,” he says earnestly, “I’ve—I’ve heard nothing but violence coming from them. If they just stopped, there wouldn’t be anymore deaths. There wouldn’t be any more fighting. No land would be hurt or destroyed in the crossfire. It could go back to the way things were.”

The interviewer nods. “Yes. They forced the Federation’s hand, unfortunately. A foolish move by anyone.”

Wilbur hums. “I just wish everyone could calm down. I hate seeing so much conflict and fighting in the world.”

“I can see that,” the man returns, “You’re a gentle soul, Wilbur. Anyone could see that, even in your games. I mean, who else would take the time to sing lullabies or do hair? Not to mention you always were protecting your partner.”

“It’s what I do,” Wilbur says, “Everyone needs someone to look out for them. The Capitol does that for all the Districts, and they do so without complaint. I don’t see how I can be heralded as a noble champion and the Capitol condemned.”

Because you’re good, Phil wants to scream, You’re selfless and put others before yourself. The Federation only cares for those within its city bounds. They only look beyond when they need something. You expect nothing. 

“The world is a confusing place, Wilbur,” the interviewer sighs. He folds his hands in his lap. “We’ve discovered the ‘missing’ victors have been spearheading these uprisings across the nation. After all the benefits they’ve received, the laurels we’ve given them, they repay that kindness with betrayal.”

Wilbur stares at the man with a cross between surprise and apathy. Like he doesn’t believe it, but deep down knows that’s the only truth, and he was just waiting for someone to confirm it so he didn’t have to. 

“R-really?”

“I’m afraid so. A tragedy, really.”

“Even Tallulah?” Wilbur utters, barely audible. 

The interviewer’s face softens, and he nods. “As far as we can tell, yes. She hasn’t had any direct involvement, to our knowledge, but it’s safe to assume she’s helping behind the scenes.”

“Oh.”

“I know this will come as a shock, Wilbur,” the man continues, “But we just want to be completely honest with you. We aren’t sure if they can be reasoned with—if any of them can be reasoned with. They’re volatile and dangerous. Nobody knows what to expect from these people we once considered family, but… the only constant is the violence you condemn.”

“I… I just don’t understand,” Wilbur confesses.

“What?” The interviewer prods.

“How they could do something like this,” Wilbur breathes, voice soft and airy, “All of them. I don’t… I don’t recognize these people.”

The words ring in Phil’s head like a cannon shot. For the rest of the interview, which gravitates to lighter matters, he tunes out the words, focusing on Wilbur’s face. His voice fades to a comforting hum in the back of Phil’s mind.

He isn’t sure if he’s imagining it or not, but Phil thinks he sees dark circles beneath the makeup caked on Wilbur’s face. When he shifts, for a passing second, he thinks he spies bruising along his neck, tiny pinpricks of dried blood, like a needle had pricked him.

Or maybe Phil is just looking for things that aren’t there. Maybe he’s imagining this pain, a horrid thing for him to do, to even think of happening to his son, just to prove himself right.

Maybe Wilbur truly does believe in all this. In a way—a twisted way—it sounds like him. He never was a fighter. He never wanted to be. The only reason he fought in the games was because he had to.

Phil doesn’t even realize it when the broadcast ends. It seems like mere seconds pass, but the next he knows it, Wilbur is gone, just like that. Techno stands in front of him, and for a moment… for a moment he thinks Wilbur is still there. A stupid mistake. Their hair sets them apart, among other slight differences. Phil hasn’t genuinely confused them since they were babies.

“Dad? You okay?”

“Fine,” Phil blinks, fire curling around his heart. It’s a feeling he can’t shake, even if he douses it with the tears he holds back. It’s unshakable.

“I know that look,” Etoiles cuts in, coming over to stand by Techno, “What are you thinking, Phil? What do you want to do? You’re planning something, I can tell.”

Phil looks him in the eye, blue clashing with green. He takes a deep breath in, and when he releases it, everything feels clear, the flames fanned.

“I want to kill the President.”

~ ~ ~

Baghera and Etoiles work overtime in the coming weeks. They’re the representatives from Two, and thus they know all there is to know about the District and its weapon manufacturing processes. Baghera checks with every District on their side, getting numbers, needs, and weapons they already have.

Which, to be honest, is a few Peacekeeper guns for most. Some scythes and sickles in the crop Districts. Pickaxes and regular axes from Twelve and Seven. Random, assorted tools that the people need for their jobs and are willing to use to fight.

Three makes most of their explosives from spare parts and other materials. Twelve has some too, from when they need to clear out mines.

The rest is up to Two.

Together, Baghera and Etoiles crunch the numbers, getting help from Pierre, Pac, and Mike. They have Phil around to ask questions and opinions, but it’s a little out of his depth.

Etoiles, meanwhile, works in the forge for fun. He’s paid enough to never have to work a day in his life, yet chooses to because, in his words, nobody else makes weapons correctly for his taste. So he does it himself, creating master weapons he stocks up in case.

In fact, he has enough to cover everyone here. His creations accounted for half his luggage. Baghera had to drag some bags full of swords and knives.

But with access to Two, they can get more for all the Districts—swords, hatchets, guns, bows… whatever they need, Two can create.

“I have something I think you’ll like,” Etoiles says after a lengthy meeting one day.

“Is it the thing?” Baghera asks, looking up from her timeline. The way she says it fills Phil with a sense of dread. She’s too excited for it to be anything innocent. 

“Yes, it’s the thing,” Etoiles confirms, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

Baghera squeals in glee. “Ooh! Philza, you’re going to love it!” She cheers, standing up. She makes sure to save their schedule before shutting it and circling the table. “It’s so cool. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

Phil laughs. “I don’t even know what the surprise is, let alone if I want it,” he says.

“That’s why you have to come see,” Etoiles says, rising and heading for the door. Baghera all but pulls Phil up to follow. “Trust me, Phil, you? You’re going to love it. I promise. It will make you laugh.”

“It’s cool but will make me laugh?” Phil chuckles, “Now I’m just confused.”

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Baghera says slyly, “You’ll see soon!”

“I feel like you’re pranking me. I’m gonna walk under a doorway and paint is gonna fall on my head.”

“No, Cellbit wouldn’t let us waste Richas’ paint.”

Phil can’t tell if she’s joking or not. After so long knowing her, he’s learned it’s too much effort to try and figure it out.

They head through the halls, passing Charlie and Quackity on the way, Dapper leading them. He doesn’t know where they’re headed, but Baghera made sure they knew she’d catch up in a bit.

Eventually, they come to a storage room for all of Etoiles’ weaponry he brought. It’s practically an armory at this point… minus the armor. 

Phil won’t lie and say he isn’t a little surprised. With these two, a surprise could have been anything, even just a hidden painting they found on some wall. It makes sense it’d be some sort of weapon, but…

Still surprising.

Etoiles rifles through some bags. He unpacked about a quarter of his creations before deciding they’d be moved anyway and should stay in the bags.

Finally, he finds it, hidden underneath a tarp. It wasn’t even in a bag, much to Etoiles’ annoyance. At least he found it. 

He turns to Phil with a glittering scythe in his hands. 

It’s a dark, purplish black metal that sparkles in the dim light streaking in from the hall. The curve of the blade is perfect, curling in ominously, like an upturned smirk.

“You didn’t…” Phil breathes in shock.

Etoiles steps closer, beaming. “I did. If they’re going to call you the Angel of Death, might as well look the part, eh?”

Phil laughs lightly as he takes it, the staff feeling like it was crafted for his hands. He grips it as if preparing for a strike. The motion is easy, practiced… like it’s a part of him that never left.

“If you’re going to kill the President,” Etoiles says, “Might as well send a message.”

~ ~ ~

It can’t wait any longer.

Now is the time for action—everyone is ready, and the people are growing restless, both in and out of Thirteen. So they gave the signal.

All their fighters mobilized at once.

While those in Thirteen loaded into the jets, Six carried everyone from the Districts toward the Capitol. Five managed to blow the dam, causing a blackout in the city. Two began handing out weapons and defenses.

By the time Phil sets his foot in Two, everything is in formation. People are bustling around, chatter filling the air. Baghera and Etoiles lead the way, Pierre and Antoine shortly behind, happy to be home.

There are some trucks from Six rolling around, waiting to take them where they need to go. There’s a chill in the night air that makes Phil want to run in himself.

They ride to a tent where they gather to make sure they have everything ready. Everyone is armed, everyone that’s going, at least. Mostly just the victors, barring Tallulah. She’s tough, that one, but she’s still just a child. If none of the other kids are allowed, neither is she. The games aren’t a mark of honor.

Kristin and Tommy will lead the medical practices for Thirteen, aided by other professionals, Missa, and Jaiden. Charlie, Antoine, Mariana, Tubbo, Niki, Foolish, and Felps can watch out for the little ones. Pierre, Pac, and Mike, meanwhile, will help the other Three residents and act as their communications bridge to base along with Bagi and Tina.

They’ve said their goodbyes. Their see-you-laters.

The only problem?

“Techno,” Phil sighs, turning to look at his son who’d stopped him from boarding the jet. It’s just them. They’d already said goodbye, and yet here they are, re-hashing this. “You can’t come, mate.”

“But I am,” he insists, pulling his hair back into a small, messy ponytail, “I sat by once while he got reaped. I had to watch, knowing I let that happen, as he got hurt. As he—as I thought he died. I’m not letting that happen again, Dad.”

Phil sighs. He knows it’s complicated, but he’s not letting another of his sons be at risk. Not in the Capitol. They can only set foot in that city once it’s safe. Once Phil makes sure it’s safe.

“I can’t have you running into danger,” he mutters, “I already… I thought I lost one son, I won’t be losing one again. You’ll stay here and protect those who need it.”

“What if you need it?” Techno asks, eyes flashing, “What if he needs it? There are plenty of people and weapons here. You’re going into uncharted territory!”

“And I’m not taking you in there!” Phil shoots back, “I have backup. I’ll be fine.”

“Not if you’re worried about protecting Wil!” Techno grits out, “We all know you’d give your life for him, for any of us! I’m not saying I wouldn’t do the same, but we sure as hell would be better off doing this together.”

Phil looks for a moment—really looks at his eldest son. Every inch of Techno is raring for a fight, the look in his eye sparking with a need to go.

The whole reason this rebellion was started… on Phil’s part, yeah, it was revenge for Wilbur. He should have been right with Tallulah. And that vengeance morphed into a rescue mission. 

But originally? It was to make sure Techno wasn’t alone when he did something reckless.

That… could still happen if Techno isn’t at his side. He could just slip away, alone into the Capitol.

“Ask your mother.”

“She already said yes,” Techno says, blinking in disbelief, “She said someone has to make sure you don’t do something stupid.”

Phil would rebut, but it does sound like the words were stolen right from Kristin’s mouth. “Just… you stick with me, okay? Don’t go anywhere I can’t see you.”

“I swear.”

“Alright,” Phil relents, nodding to the jet that will fly them into the darkened Capitol, “The others are waiting. Let’s make this quick, hm?”

Techno nods, mouth set in a thin, determined line. Phil wraps an arm around his shoulders, and the two walk up the ramp and onto their ride. 

As they fly, they plan.

Three will keep the defenses offline for as long as possible. The rest of the Districts will fight, throughout the city and at the barriers. They’ll provide pressure and a distraction for their group—the extraction squad.

Their team will be in three groups—Phil, Techno, Fit, and Etoiles. Baghera, Cellbit, and Roier. Mouse, Quackity, and Carre. 

Phil’s team goes for Wilbur first. Baghera’s finds the President. Mouse’s clears the perimeter and makes sure no reinforcements can come. Each job is important. Each one is crucial to their successes. One fails, they all do.

And failure is not an option.

“These are the floorplans we have for the presidential mansion,” Fit says, the hologram rising from a table. It’s… ridiculously big. Phil isn’t sure how someone could live in a place like that. “Might as well just land at the front door. We’re in a jet, they’re gonna hear us.”

“The President will probably be in his office, yeah?” Baghera asks, pointing to a spot on the map, “That’s here, in the east wing.”

“Or he could be in a safehouse,” Roier suggests, “Which would probably be underground.”

“There’s no basement, though,” Mouse frowns, “So there can’t be an underground bunker like we have.”

“Unless it’s hidden,” Techno says. He pauses, as if realizing he spoke and didn’t mean to. He… doesn’t know these people like Phil. He’d hide in his room during Victory Tour visits. Techno is strong, but socializing isn’t his strong suit. “Uh… I mean… nobody knew about Thirteen, except in history books and rumors. Secret underground bunkers made for safety aren’t something usually put on maps. They’d only be known to a limited few, wouldn’t they?”

“He has a point,” Etoiles says, “If it’s meant to protect the President, he won’t let anyone know about it but him. It probably wouldn’t be on this map.”

“So then how the fuck would we get in?” Roier huffs, “That’s kinda a big part of this, no?”

“It is,” Phil agrees, “But if it’s for emergencies, and the President is usually in his office, then… there’s a good chance the entryway would be in there to begin with.”

“I can see that,” Carre sighs, “Will you be able to find it?”

“We have Cellbit,” Roier grins, “We’ll be fine.”

Baghera rolls her eyes, smiling. “He’s not even here, you don’t have to kiss up to him.”

“I’ll do what I want,” Roier smirks. He leans back from the table, turning his head to the cockpit. “Gatinho, I love you!”

Without missing a beat, Cellbit calls back, “Love you too, Guapito!”

Baghera groans. “I’m stuck with these two while we try to kill the President? We’re all doomed.”

Phil huffs a laugh. “You’ll have to keep them focused. It’s a tough job.”

“Got your work cut out for you, Baghera,” Etoiles chuckles.

“I think we might have the worst job, actually,” Mouse mutters, “Making sure the Peacekeepers are clear and all.”

“With any luck, they’ll be distracted,” Fit says, “The other Districts will make sure of that.”

“If the Capitol doesn’t get them first,” Quackity points out, “We should only expect a little time. Not as much as we might need.”

“Ideally, we’ll be in and out,” Phil agrees, “Though I know it’s wishful thinking. We’ll be up against Peacekeepers as well, and we don’t even know where our targets are.”

“Wil could be in a completely different part of the city,” Techno mutters, “We might not have him at the end of this.”

That’s true. Wilbur could be in the Tribute Tower. He could be in some secret location, one they won’t know of. He could have been relocated to another District like One or Four that isn’t part of the rebellion.

But Phil knows the best hands are always kept close to your chest. Then nobody can peek or steal it away. The first thing Quackity did when they met in Twelve for his Victory Tour was ask to play cards. And that rule won games.

Now Wilbur is that winning card, the ace the President keeps up his sleeve. If the President has the most guards, then by extension, Wilbur would too.

It makes sense for Wilbur to be in the mansion.

“If he’s not here, then he’s somewhere,” Phil says, “By taking the Capitol, we get all the power to look for him uninhibited. Either way, we’ll bring him home, Techno, I promise.”

Techno nods, staring at the map. A million thoughts race behind his eyes. A million they don’t have the time for.

“Where should we search first, Phil?” Etoiles asks, “It’s your mission, your call. You’re our fearless leader.”

Phil huffs, staring at the map. The mansion is huge, shaped like a ‘c’ and with three stories. Mouse and them will be outside. Baghera’s team in the eastern wing…

“We’ll search the western wing. It’s the only place left unchecked,” he explains, “You can zigzag through the floors on your way up to the President’s office. We can do the same on the opposite side.”

Fit and Etoiles murmur their agreement.

“We’re landing!” Cellbit calls from the pilot’s seat, “Pack it up and get ready!”

Roier shuts the map off, pocketing it. He deserves it, really—not only is he terrible with directions, but his team has a specific location to go to. They’ll need the help.

Cellbit lands the jet with ease, right in the mansion’s front gardens. There aren’t any Peacekeepers yet. Maybe they really are spread thin. 

They split into their groups, leaving the ship. Right away, Peacekeepers begin rounding the corners of the building.

“You guys go,” Mouse says, heaving her large axe to the ready, “We’ll cover you!”

From there, they part ways. Phil leads the way down the hall, a bunch of sitting areas passing them by. It’s weird to see. It’s as if there are handfuls of living rooms in the same place for no reason. Who’s going to use them? Nobody. It’s all for show.

Peacekeepers come in from a side door, perhaps from a courtyard. Etoiles rushes forward with a wild grin, raring for a fight. Fit joins him, never far behind, metal arm ready to deflect any bullets that may hit his face.

And Phil just drags Techno to the ground, making sure he stays there before the gunfire starts. By the time it does, Etoiles has killed one of the Peacekeepers, white suit stained crimson. Fit has another’s gun pointed to the ceiling, blowing holes in it.

The remaining one gets a few shots off toward Phil, but they’re too high up to hit him. By the time the guard could readjust, he has Etoiles to worry about. And by then, it’s too late. 

Phil drags Techno to his feet, nodding breathlessly. They keep running. If Phil’s memory serves correctly, the first floor has nothing of importance. Just rooms for pleasantries.

The second floor has a series of medical wings. The third holds bedrooms. It’s more likely that one of those has Wilbur.

But then something has Phil grinding to a halt.

It’s… screams. Ones that are familiar, yet shouldn’t be. They should be screams of laughter, like a sensitive person being tickled. Not this. Not like… like smoke that burns, the blemishes and blisters healed only through water, which brings an excruciating amount of pain in and of itself.

They’re in pain, and they’re Wilbur’s.

And they’re… outside.

Phil darts to the nearest door, followed by an ashen Techno and his worried companions. He steps onto the patio, staring at the dark sky. Even now, without all the city lights, the stars don’t risk shining.

Here the screams are louder. They twist with sobs and flapping wings, tearing Phil apart from the inside out. 

He nearly crumbles when the screams quiet to cries, to numb pleas for “Dad…”

Logically, Phil knew Wilbur was being hurt. He saw the evidence through the makeup. Wilbur’s demeanor, the sheen in his eyes, the bruises and other cuts they tried to cover… it was all there.

But hearing it? Standing here and being unable to do anything except try and stand on weak knees, clutching at his ears and hoping he rips them off?

Phil lets out a sob of his own, gritting his teeth. A hand settles on his shoulder, fingers cold through the fabric of Phil’s shirt. He’s dragged inside, and with the door shut, the screams are a bit quieter. Not terribly so, not when they echo in Phil’s head anyway.

“Hey Phil,” Fit’s voice rings out, “You with me?”

“Fit,” Phil croaks, voice low, “That… that was—”

“Jabberjays,” Etoiles says, “Not real.”

Phil swallows, nodding. That’s not the full truth, but one look at Techno’s relaxing posture, horror draining from his features, and Phil knows he has to keep up the ruse.

It’s not like jabberjays fabricate things from nowhere. They mimic and repeat. Those screams? Those sobs, begging for Phil to come? Those were all real.

And Phil wasn’t there.

Shoving down the guilt, they move on. But the screams never die in Phil’s head. They’re immortalized.

If Phil can’t be there then, he can be there now. He won’t let Wilbur sit in the center of a cycle of suffering, losing more and more of himself with each passing second. The thought is unbearable.

So Phil keeps moving forward.

They take out Peacekeepers as they go, though it seems Mouse, Carre, and Quackity are doing a wonderful job of keeping them busy or dead outside. The strays they do face must come from within.

The walls turn white, the lights off but if they were on, the entire hall would be a blinding hospital. For a moment, Phil wonders if they’ve left the mansion and wound up in a completely different building.

They hear Peacekeepers in the staircase.

“You two go on ahead,” Fit says, “Etoiles and I can fight. Find Wilbur so we can all leave.”

Phil nods, grabbing Techno’s arm and pulling him forward a bit. He starts moving, so Phil lets go, poking his head into every room on the left. Techno takes the right.

All he sees are shadows, pristine counters, empty beds. There isn’t a soul in these halls and rooms besides them and the Peacekeepers. Maybe the staff was dismissed, or maybe they figured an attack would happen. Maybe they’re all hiding.

It’s impossible to know, so Phil continues on.

About halfway down the hall, Techno stills. “Do you hear that?”

Phil steps away from the door he’d been looking through. He doesn’t really hear much aside from the fight further down the hall. “Hear what?”

Techno’s eyes are pinned on the other end of the corridor, the one they haven’t checked. His gaze is contemplative, focused. “It’s like… breathing. Or trying to breathe, but it’s shaky. Unstable.”

Phil hates to admit it, but that sounds promising. He stumbles down the hall until he hears it too. Then nothing could stand in his way, even if it tried. 

The labored breathing is just behind a door now. Phil feels sick thinking of opening it, but it only gets worse the longer it’s shut. If their hearts are right, Wilbur is just behind this door. In a medical wing. That means they haven’t just been hurting him they’ve been…

They don’t know what they’ve been doing to him. It could be anything.

Phil has to find out, for Wilbur’s sake.

He opens the door, the room lightening a little bit, though still shrouded in darkness. This is the right room, the sharp breaths louder and not hitching, even with the sudden movement.

Techno follows him in, searching. All they see is another empty medical space until the door shuts. 

Hiding behind it, curled in on himself, is…

“Wilbur,” Phil whispers, “Oh my… Wilbur—”

He’s at his son’s side in seconds, getting as good a look at him as possible. He looks terrible, truthfully. Wilbur is more skin and bones than anything, and when he shudders, Phil can’t tell if it’s from fear or cold. His eyes are sunken, dark bags beneath them. His hair is matted. Without the makeup, all the bruises are stark, even in the shadows.

Phil just reaches out, pulling Wilbur to his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut. A part of him is just so relieved to have Wilbur here, in his arms. The other part notices how he stops breathing as soon as Phil touches him.

Wilbur screams, pushing Phil away with all his strength. It’s not much. Phil ends up letting go, stumbling back in the hopes that he can calm Wilbur down.

It works a little bit, even though Wilbur backs himself into the corner, pinning Phil in place with wide, terrified eyes.

Techno sits between them in one motion, careful not to spook his twin. “Wilbur,” he says, voice low but soft, “Hey. You’re okay. It’s—”

Wilbur lunges forward, cutting him off. He wraps his arms around Techno, burying his face in his shoulder with a sob. Hesitantly, Techno hugs him back.

“Techno—” Wilbur gasps, voice cracking.

“It’s me, Wil,” Techno replies, fragile and ridden with a tentative hope, “I’m right here, I promise. I’m not gonna leave your side.”

“He’s gonna kill me,” Wilbur breathes, “Techno, you—you can’t let him, he’s gonna hurt me, gonna kill me—”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Techno swears, “Nobody will kill you, Wil. You’re safe with me.”

“But he’s here.”

“The President isn’t here,” Techno reminds him, “You’re okay.”

“No, he’s here!”

The urgency in his voice causes Techno to pause, pulling back a little to look Wilbur in the eyes. Phil can’t see his expression, but from the way he’s been speaking, Wilbur is petrified of everything.

“Wil… who do you think is gonna hurt you?”

A moment passes, blissfully quiet. But in the next second, Phil’s whole world explodes into dust.

“Him,” Wilbur repeats, “The Angel.”

He thinks… Wilbur thinks Phil is going to hurt him? To kill him? As if he’d ever dream of such a thing. As if he’d ever be capable of something like that. When all he’s ever wanted is for his sons to live and be happy.

Phil’s voice catches in his throat as Techno turns to meet his eye. Techno’s brown ones are wide, his brow furrowed, and he appears at a loss for words. But he turns back to Wilbur.

“He won’t.”

“He will, I know it,” Wilbur stresses, grabbing onto Techno’s forearms as if they’re the only thing grounding him, “You have to believe me, Tech, he’s dangerous. He’s lying to you.”

Each word kills Phil a little more. Tears well in his eyes, but he doesn’t dare make a sound, lest he scare Wilbur any more. Phil has always put his boys above him and that won’t change now.

“Okay,” Techno whispers, “Okay, Wilbur, I believe you. Would you like him to leave? Would that make you feel better?”

There’s silence in response, but Wilbur must nod, because the next moment, Techno’s turning with an apologetic grimace on his face.

“Dad, could you—”

“On it,” Phil croaks, standing up. He skirts around the opposite side of the room, staring as far from Wilbur as possible. He opens the door and steps out into the hallway, pausing as he listens in, tears pouring down his face like waterfalls.

“He’s gone,” Techno says, muffled.

“You have to help me, Techno,” Wilbur pleads, “He’s not safe, nowhere is safe now—”

Techno hushes him gently. “I’m gonna help you, Wil. Don’t worry. You’re not alone anymore. We can—we can go home.”

“Not safe.”

“I promise it’s safe,” Techno says, “Don’t you want to see Mom? She misses you. We all have.”

“Yeah,” Wilbur says shakily, “Yeah, I do.”

“Great. Now we can leave—”

“Not with him,” Wilbur insists, “Please?”

“I swear to you, I won’t let him or anyone else hurt you ever again,” Techno says fiercely, words on fire, “Okay? You’ll be safe with me. Always.”

Fit and Etoiles approach, looking relatively unharmed. More concerned than anything.

“Phil? Are you alright?” Etoiles asks, looking ready to kill someone. It’s almost amusing. In any other scenario, it would be.

“They’re in there,” Phil rasps, pointing to the door, “I’m gonna… I’m gonna go find Baghera and the others. Get them to the jet, will you?”

He’s relieved when they both nod, expressions grim but knowing. They don’t push or question. They just understand.

Phil leaves his sons in their care, confident that all the Peacekeepers will die before they lay a hand on either of them.

He makes it to the office rather quickly, like a storm that leaves only destruction in its wake. Peacekeepers lay dead, marking his trail, bullet holes in the walls and ceiling and floor, anywhere but Phil’s flesh. His scythe is free of blood. Phil used his spare knives for the masses, but the scythe sends a message. It’s special. 

To his surprise, the President is in his office.

He sits in his chair, perfectly composed as if Baghera doesn’t have a chainsaw across his throat, fingers twitching to turn it on. Cellbit and Roier rifle through drawers and cabinets, getting whatever information they can.

Phil crosses the room to the desk, slamming his hands on it. “What did you do?!”

The President looks at him with coal-black eyes, hair and suit as white as snow. The bastard has the audacity to smile. “I take it you’ve got to meet the Phoenix?”

“His name is Wilbur and he is my son,” Phil hisses, “Tell me what you’ve done to him.”

“Now, I’m a dead man,” the President says, eerily calm, “Why would I let you win in more ways than one? If I’m to die, I may as well give myself some satisfaction.”

“Then answer me this,” Phil says, “Why the explosions? Why make me and everyone else think he’s dead?”

“One of them was always meant to die,” the President smiles, “Though I will admit that at first, I was disappointed with the outcome. That boy of yours was always the more interesting spectacle. But he survived enough for us to revive him. And I thought: this could be useful. And it was. So here we are, Angel. You should thank me. The games should have one winner, but I was generous and allowed you both.”

Phil grits his teeth. From the corner of his eye, he can see Baghera’s face harden, features sharpening. 

“I would never thank you for hurting him,” Phil says lowly, “He may be alive and he may be safe one day after you’re dead and gone, but I will never thank you for what you’ve done. You put him through hell. You have none of my gratitude.”

“A pity,” the President sighs, “You don’t see all I’ve done for you.”

“You’ve done nothing for me. All you’ve done is cause pain and take from me. From all of us.”

“It could have been much worse, Angel,” the President smirks, “But at the end of the day, my job has been done. So I’m satisfied. Be grateful I settled.”

A bitter taste stings Phil’s mouth. The President is sitting here gloating that he didn’t hurt Wilbur more. He’s trying to make Phil thank him, make him be indebted to him. But what he doesn’t know is that anyone who hurts his sons will suffer one way or another.

And a Reaper doesn’t discriminate, it just does its job. Death takes all. So Phil lifts his scythe, hoisting it up, the curve underneath the chainsaw’s blade.

“You can let him go, Baghera,” he says quietly. She nods, disappearing to join the others, Phil assumes.

The President grins up at him. “You are exactly what the arena made you.”

Phil slashes his scythe across his neck, watching the head fall off, blood running down the pure white suit. The body falls forward onto the desk.

A Reaper does its job.

So does a father.

And so does Phil, The Angel of Death.