Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It stops Phil in his tracks, breath caught in his lungs. The floor falls out from beneath him. Everything is slow, muted. The world passes by in a blur of color.

No matter the outcome, he lost. He put his heart and soul into a death match foolishly hoping they would both return unscathed.

But no. Because a cannon fired.

“Phil?” Fit asks, chair scraping against the floorboards. A moment of silence passes by, Phil staring at his hands, coated in blood, but it’s not his, it’s never his—

A hand settles on his shoulder, heavy and steady. Phil’s head snaps to see Fit standing there, worry and pity in his dark eyes.

“I’m not going to lie and say it’s okay,” his friend says, simple and low, “Because I know you. And whatever happened? You care, Phil. And that’s not a bad thing, even if it feels like the world is ending. You’re just human.”

Phil looks at him, eyes wide and full of tears. “What am I meant to do?”

“Pick yourself up,” Fit answers without missing a beat, “People need you. You need yourself. Take whatever time you need, do what you have to, but don’t let them win.”

He says it like Phil has a chance. Like he hasn’t already lost, and there’s a fight to continue. But for Phil? He’s been fighting for so long. In the arena, in his dreams, every second of every day… it’s exhausting.

Right now, he just wants to go home, but that house will never be the same. Phil’s not even fully sure he can show his face there. No matter what, he’s failed somebody in the family.

Either way, he’s failed himself.

“I—I’m gonna see who…” Phil trails off, looking at the wooden floor, tracing the knots with his sight. He points at the door and Fit’s hand falls away. 

“Take care, Phil. We’re here if you need anything.”

But they can never understand. Phil wouldn’t want them to anyway. He’d never wish this on anyone, but walking down the empty halls, fighting to keep composure?

Phil’s never felt so alone.

His feet carry him to the medical wing. The closer he gets, the busier it is. People catch his eye and quickly avoid him like the plague. Phil is the eye of the hurricane. He will destroy anything in his path.

And eventually he’ll fizzle out, and he will no longer torment the world.

“Let me in,” he commands, voice tight and forced as he approaches the door. The medical staff takes one look at him, jumps, and nods, pressing a button.

Phil pushes the doors in. The medical wing is pure white, the color overwhelming. It’s enough to give anyone a headache. Recovery should happen somewhere warm, with yellow lights, thick comforters, and wooden furniture. Not here.

A doctor comes running from the right hall, pausing at the sight of Phil.

“I—”

“Just tell me where to go,” Phil says, voice steady. He feels like he could drop at any second. Might as well be at someone’s bedside.

“Door at the very end of the hall,” the doctor says, “Should be all cleared out now. All that’s left to do is wait.”

Phil nods, swallowing down his dread. He leaves without a thank you. The hall seems to grow the more he walks, the door growing out of reach with every step. But eventually, his hand settles atop the cold handle, sending ice through his skin.

And he opens it.

The first thing he hears is a steady heart monitor and its rhythmic beeping. Then he sees the bed.

Brown curls, but they’re too long. The figure is too small on the bed, swallowed by the pure white covers. None of the features Phil watched grow make up the face.

The nose is too much of a button. Skin is too tan. Lashes too long. Freckles. Hands tiny and delicate, not calloused from years of guitar lessons.

It’s Tallulah.

She’s… okay.

There’s relief in that, a shallow one. She looks so little on the medical bed, so young and innocent.

But there’s a guilt-ridden disappointment. A part of him dies when he sees it’s not Wilbur, it’s not his boy. It all hits him in that moment, that a light has gone out that won’t ever be lit again. He won’t see Wilbur’s face. Hear his laugh. Hug him.

He won’t see the person he was meant to become. Ever.

But he hates to even think that he’d rather Tallulah dead. Neither of them should, but… he doesn’t know anymore. He can’t feel happy she’s here without remembering who he lost, who they both lost. And he can’t wish Wilbur was here without swapping places and overlooking the sliver of hope he has.

So he just feels numb.

A wounded noise escapes Phil, and he stumbles forward, depositing himself in a chair. Tears run rivers down his face. He covers his mouth, a childish part of him not wanting to disturb Tallulah.

She won’t wake, though.

An oxygen mask sits on her face. Her breathing is subtle but there, and Phil can see bandages over the claw wound. Other than that, she must be fine.

Wilbur made sure of it.

That was his last act, though Phil loathes to accept it. He would have given his life for Wilbur, taken his place a million times over and then some. But he can’t do that anymore. All he can do is dedicate his life to what Wilbur died to protect.

Tallulah. She’s alive and… Phil can focus on that. He can, he really can. But… the more he sits in the quiet, the more he realizes.

Wilbur isn’t here. That means he’s dead. Phil will never get to hug him again, and he wishes he were wiser so he could have hugged him a bit harder the last time.

Phil isn’t sure if Kristin and the kids know. How could they? He wasn’t sure himself until he sat in this chair. Will they know before he gets there? Will they shoot a cannon? Or will Phil have to tell them? Will he have to see the grief flood their faces as his boys break down, too young and caring to pick themselves up? What will Kristin say? That’s one thing Phil doesn’t know. It scares him.

Selfishly, he realizes another thing—at this rate, he still has another five years that Chayanne could be reaped. Three for Tommy. One for Techno, and it’s his highest chance yet.

If any of them were to ever be put in the games… Phil couldn’t handle it. Not again.

He just wishes it didn’t take Wilbur dying for him to realize that.

But it’s too late.

He… he remembers when Wilbur was born, how absolutely terrifying it was to be in the same room as the twins. Phil was scared he was going to hurt them. But as soon as he saw them in their cribs the first time? When he got to hold them, hear their giggles and coos? They owned his heart.

And he got to watch them grow.

First steps, first words—Wilbur had said ‘no’ when Techno took his crayon. A few weeks later, when asked who his best friend was, Techno hugged his twin and proudly declared ‘W’bur.’

Their first days of school, every page of homework they got… their excitement over their brothers, Wilbur’s first missing tooth when he got an adorable grin that never dropped…

So many memories Phil could spend the rest of his life reliving. He wants to. He wants to so bad, anything other than living in this moment. Waiting. Grieving.

He doesn’t want to add ‘burying’ to the list. He doesn’t want a last memory, but… it’s too late. It’s always too late. Phil can never do anything.

Instead, he gives up. The dam falls and the flood begins. It crashes onto the shores, the towns, the cities and plains, destroying everything indiscriminately.

Phil wants to punch a wall. He wants to fall on his knees and never get up. He wants to scream. He wants to break every finger in his hand. He wants to sleep. He wants time to stop. He wants time to turn back. He wants everything. He wants nothing.

All Phil can do, though, is rely on himself. None of that is feasible, so he does what any person would do—he cries his throat raw. There is no comfort in this cold room, no pillows or oversized clothes, no blankets or cushions. It’s like it’s meant to drive a person mad in their grief. 

Someone knocks on the door.

The sound alone touches a nerve, however quiet and patient it is.

“Fuck off!” He screams. He shoots up from his chair, grabbing a small potted plant from the nightstand and hurtling it at the door. The chair falls over as the ceramic shatters, dirt spilling onto the floor along with the shards.

The door opens regardless, Etoiles peeking in. “What did that plant ever do to you?” He asks, though despite the lightness in his voice, it’s not as boisterous as it normally would be.

Phil doesn’t bother wiping his eyes. He just stands, heaving for breath, one movement away from shattering. He flexes his fingers. He has nowhere to go, nothing to do.

Etoiles steps over the remnants of the plant, the small green sprout with its roots jostled in the dirt. Oh well. Everything good and innocent must die in this world.

His green eyes find Tallulah and turn soft when they meet Phil’s.

“I can’t imagine,” is all he says. He stands across from Phil, almost within reach.

“I hope you won’t know,” Phil grits out, “I hope no one ever knows.”

Etoiles is quiet for a moment. “For once, I have no words. All I can say is I’m sorry, and even then, I know it won’t help at all.”

A lump forms in Phil’s throat. He chokes out a pitiful noise, but no words come out. Someone is sorry for him? Why? What has he done to warrant that? Wilbur is the one not here, the one who’s life was taken when he should have lived.

He should be here. Not Phil.

And that makes him oh so angry.

“Is this what I get, Etoiles?” He asks, “I played their games! I slaughtered people—in my games I killed more people than there usually are tributes! They called me the Reaper, the Ferryman, the Angel of Death, and for what? For them to take one of the only joys in my life? To make me lead him to his death?”

“I don’t know, man,” Etoiles shakes his head, at a loss, “I may act like it, but I really don’t know anything, least of all what these people want. I don’t know why the Gamemaker exploded everything. They probably didn’t give a shit. They never do, but that doesn’t explain anything. That doesn’t change anything. The only constant is that life is cruel.”

“Then life should end, don’t you think?” Phil asks, broken, hopeless. 

“No,” Etoiles mutters, “Because kinder people can change it.”

“That would take a lot of work.”

“That means it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

“Etoiles, what are you saying?”

The man shrugs. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just a tired old man trying to help his friend feel better where no words will help.”

“If you’re old, what am I?”

Etoiles sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “You, my friend, are a legend.”

Phil rolls his eyes and finally scrubs them of tears. His head aches, right behind his eyebrows. He just wants to put a spike through his skull, but alas, that would kill him. And unfortunately, Phil has a lot of people to live for.

He wishes he had one more.

(But wishes don’t come true. Ask the children. Ask the teens who wish they may never hear their names called.

You can’t. They’re all dead, joining the sky as stars to wish upon. Thus the cycle continues.)

“I wouldn’t call me that,” Phil argues lightly.

“You’re standing here, aren’t you?” Etoiles asks, “Unless you’re not Phil Craft, greatest to ever live. In that case, I take it back—”

“You’re impossible,” Phil huffs.

“I am. Phil, I mean every word when I say that no matter what happens, I’m at your side,” Etoiles says, “No more scythes, I’m your sword. Point me at your foe and they will fall. No matter how impossible it may seem.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, and Phil is more than grateful, but…

“Stop trying to make me feel better,” Phil says miserably, “It’s not gonna work.”

“I know. Nothing will.”

Etoiles just drops his hand, walking past Phil to pick up the fallen chair. He returns to grab Phil by the shoulders, sitting him back down before dragging over a chair of his own.

“But I can stay,” Etoiles continues, “I think that’s the most important thing anyone can do.”

Phil hums. “You might be right.”

This whole time, he’s been distracted. Not in a bad way—on the contrary, this stiffened version of their familiar banter is just what he needed. It takes Phil’s mind off of… everything.

Aside from his headache, of course, but only time can stop that.

The clock ticks, the heart monitor beeps, and the sun leaves the horizon, blanketing the Capitol in darkness just so the buildings can take over.

Etoiles shuts the curtains as the Capitol’s anthem sounds out. Phil barely catches a glimpse of Wilbur’s grayed out face, name, and District projected on billboards and the sides of buildings.

“So much for tuning out the world, hm?” Phil mutters darkly.

“That was unnecessary of them,” his friend huffs, “The cameras got wrecked, the broadcast stopped. They just want to rub salt in the wound.”

“Fuck them,” Phil mutters under his breath. His eyes are dry and heavy, but he remains awake. He has to, at least until Tallulah stirs.

“Don’t say things like that too loud,” Etoiles smiles, taking his seat, “Never know who’s listening.”

Phil just nods, leaning back in his chair. He could care less who hears his distaste for the Capitol, but if Etoiles says it isn’t wise, then he’ll listen. For once.

A doctor opens the door, stepping in dirt. She looks surprised but remains composed, stepping aside and clicking the toes of her shoes against the floor to rid them of earth. After adjusting her grip on the clipboard in her hands, she approaches Phil.

“Mr. Craft, a word?”

“Not like I have a say,” he mutters. 

She takes it in stride. “Ms. Soot should be up soon. I’m going to check on her once she wakes and formally discharge her, but I wanted to inform you of some lasting effects.”

Phil pauses, a retort dying on his tongue. “Lasting… effects?”

She hands him the clipboard but talks anyway. “The explosions damaged her hearing. As a result, she’ll need hearing aids, which the Capitol is more than happy to provide. Her lungs are weaker from near-drowning, so she may have trouble breathing and doing strenuous activities. We will also provide an inhaler to help with that.”

He looks between her, Etoiles, and the clipboard, baffled. In hindsight, after all Tallulah’s survived, this seems like the best case scenario. It’s a miracle she’s even alive. And these things happen—physical reminders as much as the mental. Fit lost his arm, after all.

But Phil doesn’t want to thank the woman, not for doing the bare minimum, so he just nods. She disappears into a corner to get things ready and to be on call should Tallulah wake up.

Etoiles doesn’t say anything. It’s too risky to, when there’s staff here, so they sit in silence.

That doesn’t mean they can’t communicate.

Phil can see the tension in Etoiles’ shoulders, how his eyes never leave the attendant somewhere behind Phil. He doesn’t trust anyone here, and Phil can’t blame him. They might be helping Tallulah, but it’s only so they can have a precious victor. It’s not because they care—they just want another trophy.

And they, the victors? They can’t do anything about it. They can only help the cycle along, becoming parts of the machine they detest so much.

It’s a little funny, though. Phil doesn’t have a choice. He, until today, has been the only winner from Twelve. And though he and Tallulah will mentor together, neither of them will be alone. Others are more curious. Etoiles and Baghera don’t have to mentor year after year, but they choose to. It’s a blatant excuse to spend as much time with everyone as possible, but… they take for granted the fact that they can stop if they want to and remove themselves.

Phil can’t. He’s stuck. 

His thoughts are interrupted when he catches a glimpse of Tallulah’s face wavering. It dips into an uncomfortable grimace, then back to peaceful, but then her brow furrows again.

The heart rate monitor spikes a little, and Phil’s copies it. He stands up, unsure, but the doctor comes over calmly.

She sets a hand on Tallulah’s arm, tapping lightly every so often. It looks like nothing, but it works somehow… knowing Tallulah, it calmed her just to know she wasn’t alone.

Then her eyes open—not fully, because of the lights, but from what Phil can see, there’s a thick haze over them. She did just wake up, after all, but… she’s up. She’s alive. And Phil will do anything in his power to ensure that stays true.

The doctor steps away, and Phil takes her place, sitting on the side of the bed. Etoiles gets up and leaves somewhere. The lights dim slightly, and he returns to Tallulah’s side, standing protector a short ways away.

“Tallulah,” Phil calls softly, taking her hand. The heart rate monitor is clamped on one of her fingers, but he doesn’t dare take it off.

She looks over and relaxes, eyes brightening a bit. Then, ever so quietly, so much that Phil strains to hear it, she says, “Phil.”

But then she looks confused. She repeats his name a bit louder, enough for him and Etoiles both to hear, but that doesn’t calm her. It only sends her heart spiking.

“Tallulah,” Phil says loudly, as booming as he can without shouting, “Hey, it’s okay, we can hear you.”

She pauses, and Phil knows she heard him.

Tallulah starts her sentence over what seems like a million times until her volume matches Phil’s. “What happened?”

“The explosions messed with your hearing,” he tells her. Tallulah’s expression doesn’t shift an inch. “The doctor has hearing aids that, to my understanding, should make it so you can hear as normally as possible.”

The doctor steps in with a smile, slowly affixing the aids to Tallulah’s ears so as to not startle anyone. Etoiles doesn’t take his eyes off the woman when she’s between him and Tallulah. The doctor steps back with the same pasted-on smile.

“Should be all set.”

Tallulah flinches. “It’s a bit—” she stops, lowering her volume, “It’s a bit loud.”

The doctor nods, showing Tallulah how to lower and raise the volume of the world around her. Together, they adjust it accordingly, and Tallulah gives a thumbs up when it’s all good. 

Phil talks at a normal volume. “Is this good?”

“Perfect,” Tallulah nods, face pinched. 

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, “It’s just… an adjustment.”

Of course it is. Any change, especially one from the games? It’s a lot to get used to. Sometimes, Phil still finds he hasn’t fully adapted, even now.

“That’s okay. It’ll just take time.”

Tallulah nods, mind elsewhere. The doctor comes back over, handing Phil the inhaler.

“This is for her. Regular shortness of breath should only need one pump, attacks might need several. Really, whatever she needs to get her breathing steady should be good. I’m also going to send you with refills, and more should be delivered monthly.”

Phil hums. Tallulah watches curiously but doesn’t say anything. As soon as they’re alone, Phil expects a tidal wave of questions. He just hopes he has the answers. 

The doctor looks Tallulah over one last time, checking her heart, blood pressure, breathing, and reflexes.  A standard check up that all the tributes have before entering the arena, and one that passes quickly.

Tallulah is free to go after that. No more tests or games or anything.

Phil, flanked by Etoiles, ushers her out with a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t say anything until they reach their apartment in the tribute tower.

“We have to get ready to go now,” Phil says, already moving to make sure he hasn’t left anything, “There should be a train waiting for us now that you’ve been cleared. We can leave aft—”

Tallulah steps into the apartment, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. She scans the area, poking around corners and under tables as if expecting to find something. Eventually, she gives up.

“Phil?” She asks, “Where’s Wilbur?”

He stops in place, hands hovering around a potted plant he was straightening. They fall to a small box beside it with his name on it. Phil opens it as Tallulah calls his name again, worry and fear filling her voice.

But Phil just opens the box.

Inside, on a half-melted chain, is the necklace. The emerald is chipped, scratched, and covered in streaks of ash, but… it’s there.

A note lies underneath.

What we could save. 

It makes Phil’s blood boil. As if they couldn’t have withheld the explosions. As if Wilbur wasn’t just fine before that. As if his blood wasn’t on their hands.

They try to act good. Generous. Merciful. But it’s all an act, a performance.

All they are is killers.

“Wilbur is dead, Tallulah,” Phil mutters, closing the box. He stares at it, vision blurring. “He’s dead.”

She pauses in her tracks, not that Phil meets her eye. His gaze is stuck on the dark box he grips tightly in his hands. But he hears her paces stop, the sharp little intake of breath.

And her feet as she runs off toward the bedrooms. Then Etoiles sighs.

“You could have done anything else and it would have been better than that,” he deadpans. He steps closer, drawing Phil’s attention, as worthless as that may be at the moment.

“What am I supposed to say?” Phil asks mournfully, “There’s no right way to put it. He’s dead, Etoiles. It’s that simple.”

But it feels complicated. It feels like trying to swallow a watermelon whole, or like being a child again, standing alone in the rain. There’s nobody to hold you, to tell you it’s alright, and you to believe them, because they’re older and wiser. There’s no way to swallow the watermelon without dying, so you must give up and spit it out with a strangled cry.

It feels like drowning in an endless ocean. Harder if you struggle. Easier if you just accept it and die too.

But… Phil knows he is the older and wiser one. He’s the person driving by on a boat with a life preserver. The one with a knife so the watermelon might be easier to stomach.

“Give me that,” Etoiles says gently, holding out his hand. Phil hesitates, wanting to protect the necklace within like a dragon guarding his hoard. But this is Etoiles. He has nothing to be afraid of with him. So Phil gives it over, and his friend smiles. “Go see what Tallulah needs. Go get ready. I’ll give it back before you get on the train.”

He nods, leaving Etoiles in the living room. Phil swipes at his eyes as he goes, listening out for any sign of Tallulah.

Which… isn’t hard to catch.

Sobs fill the air from behind a door, stifled but loud. They come from a place of deep hurt and raw pain, wails that will echo in Phil’s mind for the rest of his days.

And they come from behind Wilbur’s door.

Phil should have known she would come here. If not to check, to prove Phil wrong, then… to find a piece of him. And who could blame her? Phil’s doing the same thing, just with his necklace.

He opens the door quietly, seeing Tallulah face down on the bed, face pressed into a decorative pillow. Her cries hitch when the door creaks, and her head snaps up. Red rims her watery eyes, a similar flush in her cheeks as the tears stream down them.

It hurts to see her so upset, to know she’s hurting so deeply.

“Hey, Tallulah,” Phil sighs, sitting a distance away on the edge of the bed, “I know I… handled that poorly. There were definitely better ways to tell you, but… I don’t think I’ve even fully come to terms with him being gone. Hell, I know I haven’t, it’s been a few hours, but my mind just can’t—just can’t reconcile that he’s—”

Phil’s voice tightens. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to say that Wilbur is dead because maybe if he doesn’t, it won’t be true. And that would be the greatest gift of all.

Tallulah doesn’t yell. She never would, but Phil wouldn’t blame her if she did. Instead, she just tackles him into a hug. She buries her face in his shoulder as the sobs return, enough to shatter his heart.

Phil turns and pulls her into a hug. God, she’s just a kid, and she lost the only person she fought to keep.

The games are hard enough when you don’t know anybody. But Tallulah and Wilbur were a team. They fought to keep each other alive when the world wanted them dead and they were supposed to win… they were supposed to win.

“I’m sorry,” Phil cries, finally letting himself grieve, “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. It was supposed to be both of you here, you were both supposed to come home, and I—”

“It’s not your fault,” Tallulah hiccups, “We w—wouldn't have lasted as long withou—without your help. We—we both know that.”

“And you did beautifully,” Phil reassures her, “You did everything just right. I—I saw you protect him, Tallulah, I saw you save him. I can never voice to you how grateful I am for that, or how proud I am.”

“I—we wanted to go home,” Tallulah says, voice shattering like glass.

“Do you still want to?” Phil asks, letting her cry, “I… I know Wil can’t, but he’d want us to, I know that for sure. And… we can bring him with us. In our hearts.”

He knows it’s not the same, but it’s all they have. Phil didn’t lie when he said Wilbur would want them to go home, either. That was the truth. Wilbur is selfless, and would want them to be safe and comfortable, if not happy.

Tallulah nods, clinging onto him for dear life. That settles it, then. They’re heading home.

Something about that is… 

Terrifying.

“Okay. We will, right after one last thing,” Phil continues, “It should be quick, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“What is it?” She croaks, pulling back.

“One last interview. Then we can head right to the train from there. I swear. You just gotta be a little brave one last time.”

Tallulah doesn’t want to. It’s clear on her face, but she just takes a shuddering breath. “They won’t let us leave until I do, will they?”

Phil smiles sadly at her. “I don’t imagine they will, no. They want to crown a winner. They want to show you survived. They won’t care about anything else, least of all what you want.”

Tallulah rubs at her eyes with a fury, ridding her face of any trace of tears. Her nose is still stuffed, eyes puffy, but it will have to do. “Let's get this over with, then.”

~ ~ ~

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Tallulah mutters, tugging at her dress. She’s not as bright as she was the first time she went onstage, at least, not in the same way.

If before, she was a star, now she is a blaze. A rampant inferno en route to burn everything in her path. Phil is happy to stand by and watch her burn this godforsaken place to the ground.

Tallulah remains impassive, not preening under the praise and applause like she did before. She takes her seat like she’s on a mission.

And Phil supposes she is—get this over with so she can go home. 

The cheers die down, the crowd silent as nighttime in the forest. The announcer readies his microphone, grinning. 

“Folks, after a very confusing end to our game, we finally get to meet our winner!” He exclaims, pausing for the applause. He turns to Tallulah, face melting into something soft. “Tallulah, how are you feeling?”

She plays with the ruffles of her dress. Phil knows she hates it—it’s an olive green that she’d been complaining about as soon as she tried it on.

“Fine,” Tallulah says curtly. It’s almost enough to make Phil laugh. The announcer just nods, smiling, waiting for elaboration that never comes.

“Very nice,” he says instead, laughing it off, “So Tallulah, we really saw a different side of you throughout the games. Care to clue us in?”

She glares at him out of the corner of her eye, letting go of her dress. “I did what I had to. There’s no more to it than that.”

The announcer’s smile grows tight. Tallulah really isn’t helping this whole ‘commentary’ thing, is she? The Capitol may not like that, but… Phil doesn’t care anymore. 

“Well… I see we’re not very chatty today, are we?” The man laughs, “That’s okay! Perfectly fine, we all have our days.” His demeanor shifts from jovial to something more solemn. Phil can see a greedy curiosity in his eyes from here. “Now, I’d understand if you’d rather avoid this subject, but at the en—”

Tallulah stiffens. “You’re right,” she interrupts, voice tense and toeing the line to tears, “I’d rather not. So we should move on.”

The announcer seems surprised. The whole ‘if you’d rather’ has always merely been an illusion of choice, a nicety. Phil doesn’t think anyone has actually taken the words for fact before.

“Well,” the man laughs, “I’m not too sure we have all that much time left, so why don’t we wrap this up?”

“Lovely,” Tallulah says dryly.

“Ladies and gentleman, your winner of the sixty-eighth Hunger Games, Tallulah Soot of District Twelve!”

As soon as the applause starts, Tallulah stands, a fragile look in her eyes, and speeds offstage. She dives right into Phil’s arms.

“I know,” he mutters as she cries, “It’s hard. It’s cruel. But I think you did wonderfully after all that’s happened.”

“I just—I wanna go home now, Phil,” Tallulah chokes out.

“We will,” Phil promises, “Let’s just run back to the apartment and get into some more comfortable clothes alright? You look dead on your feet.”

She nods, and together, they leave the stage behind.

~ ~ ~

Tallulah’s asleep long before they leave the Capitol. Between being in recovery, the interview, and crying, she ran herself ragged and crashed right after getting into pajamas. She simply emerged from her room, plopped down beside Phil on the couch, and promptly fell asleep.

He doesn’t blame her. Not one bit. 

Etoiles made sure they got to their train okay, giving Phil the box and Tallulah’s inhaler. The moonlight shines above them, stars smiling down. Phil doesn’t try to find Wilbur up there yet—he won’t be in the Capitol’s sky, where the stars don’t shine. He’ll be home, visible from the living room window. Always close, just out of reach.

“Remember. I’ll be there for you if you need anything,” he whispers, hugging Phil awkwardly with Tallulah snoozing in his arms, “Just let me know.”

“Thank you, Etoiles,” Phil mumbles, feeling every bit as drained as he sounds, “I will, mate. Take care.”

Phil steps foot on the train, the doors shutting behind him. He sighs and turns to go set Tallulah down in her bed. She’s going to need all the sleep she can get. 

Once she’s settled, Phil doesn’t know what to do with himself. So he crosses the hall, plops face down on his bed, and knocks out. 

He doesn’t dream. He thinks that’s a good thing.

Or maybe he didn’t have time to, because the next thing he knows, he’s jolting awake to a scream that fades into a sob.

Phil is up in an instant, one word echoing in his mind—nightmare. He had plenty when he first got back from the games, more than he cared to count. They plague sleep so that victors can’t find peace even in rest.

And now Tallulah is learning that firsthand.

Phil skids out of his room and across the hall, Tallulah sitting up and pulling the blanket to her face as she cries. 

“Tallulah,” Phil breathes, “I’m right here, mate, I’m right here.”

He sits in front of her and she slumps forward immediately, forehead resting on his shoulder. Phil sets a comforting hand on her back, trying anything to ease the fear.

“It’s just a dream, Lulah, I promise,” he mutters, “It might have happened, it might have not. But either way, you’re here now, with me on a train home. You’re safe.”

Her breathing doesn’t steady, and the words she tries to say don’t make it out of her mouth. Tallulah doesn’t let Phil leave, though, stubbornly refusing to move her head.

It makes reaching over to grab her inhaler difficult, but he does. Phil gently tugs the blanket away from her face and places the inhaler in her hands, lifting her head off his shoulder.

“Come on, Tallulah, the inhaler will help,” Phil insists. The brunette raises it to her mouth, sucking in a breath. Then another. She takes it out and sighs, frowning. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Tallulah croaks, taking a shuddering breath, “A little.”

“If you want to talk about it, I’m right here,” Phil offers, “Always.”

Tallulah thinks about it, lips pursed in thought, but ultimately, she shakes her head. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s okay.”

Phil takes the hint— Wilbur would get it. And Phil is not Wilbur. He won’t ever be, he won’t ever fully understand, but he’s better equipped than most.

It’s Tallulah’s decision, though. One day she will want to talk, and she’ll feel better. But she has to come to that conclusion on her own.

“Alright, then,” Phil says quietly, “But my offer will never expire. Try and get some rest, okay? We still have a long ride home.”

He ruffles her hair and she smiles a little, nodding. Then Phil returns to his room and decides to properly head to bed. Pajamas, no earring, and tucked comfortably under the covers, head sinking into the cool pillows.

The box stares at him from the dresser, a constant reminder, but Phil still drifts off to sleep.

The next days are full of the same.

They survive, mostly, eating meals and finding ways not to go mad from the boredom. Tallulah grows a little more accustomed to her hearing aids, learning she should take them off at night, though Phil can’t fault her. Nobody told her.

Sometimes they talk.

Tallulah will ask questions about how Phil dealt with the aftermath, and he tries his best to help. He didn’t have to lose anyone he cared about, so it’s a little different.

But perhaps the core is the same. He and Tallulah both killed. They both survived. They both are left to wonder just how fair that is, just how deserving they are.

So yeah, Phil can help a little bit.

Eventually, the windows reveal a familiar, dismal landscape, even for summer. It’s home.

The train rolls to a stop and they step into the Justice Building, right back where they started. It looks the same, which is odd when they’ve changed so much.

“Are you ready?” Phil asks as they approach the door. There’s already a crowd visible from this angle, slightly blurred from the glass. Tallulah slots her hand in his, clinging to his side. But she nods.

As soon as they step out, there’s an uproar. Tallulah flinches, pulling her hands from Phil’s and turning her hearing aids down. She takes his hand again, and he squeezes it. 

Smart kid.

Phil doesn’t let go as the Peacekeepers escort them through the crowd, a mix of cheers and unrest. He doesn’t pay attention to either type of clamor. All he’s worried about is making sure Tallulah gets to Victor’s Village alright. 

Once they distance themselves from the town center, Tallulah has Phil talk so she can readjust her hearing aids.

“Good move,” he says as soon as they’re sorted. 

“They were too loud,” Tallulah huffs, “Might as well take advantage of these things.”

“They’re yours. Use them how you see fit, even if it means tuning me out,” Phil smirks, “Just don’t let anyone make you feel bad, okay? You need them to hear fully, and that’s not something you could control.”

“I won’t, Phil,” she promises, “Nobody could bring me down.”

“Good, good. I’m glad to hear that.”

The gate is just ahead, as underwhelming and cold as always. Phil can see the house from here, and the one that is solely Tallulah’s just across the way, on the other side of the fountain.

She holds his hand a little tighter.

The Peacekeepers nod and leave, their job done. Phil watches them go.

“It’s okay to be afraid,” Phil whispers to Tallulah, “Or nervous. I am too, and it’s just my wife and boys. But there’s an irrational part of me that’s just…”

“Terrified?” Tallulah suggests.

“Yeah. Terrified,” Phil agrees, “But standing out here won’t do anything, will it?”

“Only make my legs tired,” Tallulah remarks.

Phil laughs, and together, they step through the gate. Tallulah decides she can see her house later—it can wait. She thinks she’ll take up Phil’s offer, anyway, and have a room in his house. 

Of course she can. She shouldn’t live alone, not after everything. 

So they go home.

The house is quiet as they approach, the outside the same faded grayish blue. Phil hesitates at the old wooden door. Does he knock? It’s his own house, though… what does he normally do, and why is he forgetting?

His free hand falls on the handle.

Usually, he opens it, and his sons rush to welcome him home. They take away the sting that comes with failing the tributes every year. 

But this time, when he opens the door, Phil is met with an eerie quiet.

“Hello?” He calls quietly, not wanting to disturb the… peace? No, it’s not quite that. But it is silent. 

Tallulah is right behind him as he walks in. Phil shuts the door once they’re inside, looking around the seemingly empty house.

“Is no one home?” Tallulah mutters, eyes shifting through the space.

“Good question,” Phil replies, just as quiet. The answer is no, because there’s always someone home.

He’s about to call out when he hears the floorboards creak, someone cutting through the living room quickly. Phil pokes his head in and immediately sees Kristin coming over.

She hugs him at once.

The fear slips away from Phil. Though the home may change, there will always be a family inside. The love that binds them will remain the same. 

“I’m sorry,” Phil chokes out, “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him home, Kris, I—”

“Shh,” she hushes him, “It wasn’t up to you.” One arm leaves him, but just for a moment as Kristin pulls Tallulah in to hug her as well. “Or you, dear. Neither of you could have done anything.”

Kristin might not blame him, but… that doesn’t mean Phil absolves himself.

“I killed our boy, Kristin,” Phil says numbly, “I—”

She pulls back, one arm still around Tallulah. With her other, Kristin sets a hand on Phil’s cheek, gently wiping away stray tears.

“Don’t say that,” she says quietly, “God, Phil, never say that. That’s what they want you to think, okay? But you helped him more than you could ever know.”

“You did,” Tallulah agrees, “Without you, we probably wouldn’t have run away from the middle. We wouldn’t have known what to say in the interviews, and then we wouldn’t have gotten sponsors!”

“It’s not your fault, Phil,” Kristin continues, “You never laid a harmful hand on him, and not only do we know it, but he does. Believe me.”

Phil just bites his lip. It’s hard to know what a dead boy thinks. “Where are the others?” He asks instead.

Kristin deflates, sighing and moving her hand to his shoulder. “Chayanne is out back. Probably… practicing with his sword or something. I sent Tommy to grab some food from the market, but if he saw you arrive, there’s a good chance he’ll be barreling down the door any second now.”

“And Techno?”

Kristin worries her lip, eyes flicking over Phil’s shoulder, toward the staircase. “I haven’t been able to get him out of his room in days. Nobody has.”

“Shit,” Phil sighs.

“I know,” Kristin mumbles, “I’ve been worried, but he’s had a few meals, at least. Maybe now that you’re home, you can reach him.”

He hums, nodding. “I hope so. How about this,” he sets a hand on Tallulah’s head, “You go see Chayanne. He’ll be thrilled to see you. I can check on Techno.”

“I’ll go with you,” Kristin smiles down at Tallulah, “He’s been very excited.”

“Okay,” she agrees, taking Kristin’s hand.

Phil smiles as they head off, leaving him with his thoughts.

Techno…

God, he lost his twin. They’ve done everything together since they were born. And now… 

Now he’s alone. He’s isolating himself so he doesn’t notice the presence that will never be at his side again. Phil can’t just let him waste away.

He heads up the stairs, trying not to pause as he catches sight of the family photos on the stairs. It would only be a reminder of what’s gone.

Phil heads to Techno’s door, a plate of toast and berries outside on the ground, untouched. He knocks quietly, listening for any sound on the other side. “Tech?” He calls, “It’s… it’s Dad. I’m home. Are you in there?”

There’s not a sound, not even a sniffle. For a moment, Phil isn’t sure if Techno’s even in there.

But then there’s a quiet shuffling, something clicking. More movement from behind the door, and then silence.

Phil sets his hand on the cold metal, pushing down and forward. It opens a crack. Carefully, he pushes it the rest of the way.

Techno’s room looks the same. Not too messy, but just enough it looks lived in. The cream walls are bare aside from the windows, all his pictures on dressers and nightstands.

Some of them are turned around or face down. Phil can guess why.

Techno is sitting in the center of his bed, staring out the window. A blanket is half-draped on his shoulders, his hair in a messy braid long overdue for a redo.

His trash can is still overflowing with tissues. A glass sits on his nightstand, half full of water.

“Tech,” Phil breathes, softly shutting the door, “How are you, mate?”

“Fine.”

Phil sits beside him on the bed, sighing and putting a hand on his eldest’s shoulder. “No, you’re not.”

“Who says?”

“Mom. Me. Hell, you’re saying it,” Phil says, “You’re not acting yourself. And I don’t expect you to, but…”

“I’m fine, Dad,” Techno grits out, pulling the blanket over his shoulders, “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I’m gonna worry about you, Tech,” Phil says, “I… know that it’s… a lot, right now. That’s really an understatement, but…”

“What are we gonna do?” Techno asks, voice chilly.

“We just have to keep going. It’s what Wil—”

“No, I meant what are we gonna do?” Techno emphasizes. He looks over at Phil, eyes bloodshot. “We can’t let them kill Wilbur and get away with it!”

Phil blinks, taken aback. “Tech…”

“I hate them, Phil,” he snarls, “Every last one of them. All they do is take. They took you from Mom, they took Tallulah, and they took Wil—” His voice breaks, but a few blinks and a deep breath later, he’s okay. “They’re corrupt. The games are pointless. They’re not fair, and the Districts would be better without them. So what are we going to do about it?”

Phil recalls what Etoiles said—kinder people can change things. It’s worth it. Techno is one of the kindest, most selfless people he knows. But even he is just one person.

And Phil can’t lose another son.

“Techno,” he says quietly, setting a warm hand on the back of his neck, “You are capable of so much. But you’re only seventeen. The Capitol? The Federation? They’re a whole other world, mate! They’re stronger than even you and me. We can’t just tear them down because you want vengeance.”

“I want justice,” Techno scoffs, “They were both coming home, Dad! They were…” he trails off, losing his vigor as his eyes glass over. But then the anger is back. “And then the Capitol decided no. They were too caught up in their damn rules and traditions to let him live.”

Something strikes Phil then, a terrible thought. “Techno, did you watch the games?”

He blinks tiredly. “Yeah.”

“Why on Earth would you do that?!” Phil hisses.

“Because!” Techno shouts, “I didn’t get to say goodbye to my twin, Dad, that was all I had! I wasn’t sure which moment would be the last I saw him alive! So sorry if I was selfish and watched it.”

Phil sighs, pinching his nose. “No, Tech, I’m not… I’m not mad at you.”

“Seems like it,” Techno huffs.

“I’m concerned. You know I don’t like you all watching regular games. They’re not good for people to watch, let alone when you have someone in there you care about.”

“I don’t know about you, but I think he did just fine,” Techno grumbles, “I woulda made it all so much more gruesome than he did, I think. I always thought that if anyone was gonna get picked for the games, it’d be me.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have been in there. And it doesn’t it didn’t hurt you to watch.”

“But I got to see him, Dad,” Techno chokes out, “I got to look out for him, even while I was here. I got to make sure he was okay. I’d’ve lost my mind if I knew he was in there and I had no clue what was happening.”

Phil can’t even deny it. He knows Techno, but he knows himself—if he didn’t know what was happening in that arena, he would lose it. So he can’t exactly fault Techno for doing the same.

“I… know what you mean,” Phil says quietly, “I couldn’t stop myself from watching all day either. I had to make sure he was okay. I even had Quackity watch Tallulah when they split so I could watch him…”

Techno hums, leaning his head onto Phil’s shoulder. “It just… felt wrong to leave him when he needed me most. I’ve always been there before.”

“I know. And that is why we can’t just up and overthrow the government,” Phil says lightly, “You two are… you two were always at each other’s sides. You need to grieve, Techno. We all do.”

The teen doesn’t say anything, just taking a quiet breath. It then turns into a sob. It’s loud, and breaks Phil’s heart, but he just pulls Techno into a hug. That’s all he can do.

“I miss him,” Techno sobs, “I miss him so much, Dad, you have no—no idea. How am—how am I supposed to live without him?”

“You’ll find a way,” Phil promises, breath catching in his throat, “It will never be the same as before, but… you’ll figure it out. And you’ll be okay.”

Here, with his usually so composed eldest breaking in his arms, it doesn’t feel true. But Phil thinks that Techno has been too strong for too long, and knowing when to let himself fall is a strength in and of itself.

“It’ll all be okay,” Phil whispers.

~ ~ ~

Living in Twelve is… an adjustment.

Techno at least starts eating, spending some time with the family. Tommy and Chayanne are… shaken, to say the least, but relieved their dad is home.

Tallulah takes a long time to settle. She’s in a new house of semi-familiar faces, fresh out of the games. Wilbur being here would have helped, to be sure, but… Phil is here. Chayanne is here.

Hopefully they can be enough.

Kristin is strong as ever. Phil can never be grateful enough for that, even though he can tell every moment is weighing on her.

All they can do, though, is take it day by day. Some doors remain shut, for now, some pictures covered. They had to take down one of Wilbur holding Tommy as a baby, since it set the teen off.

One day, the doors will open, dust disturbed. The pictures will see the light, decorate the tables and walls again. But not today.

“Dad,” Chayanne calls, tugging on his sleeve.

Phil hums, setting aside the knife he had been using to cut a sandwich. “What’s up, Chay?”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” he says bluntly, “I want to adventure with you.”

“Really?” Phil laughs, turning and leaning against the counter so he can face his youngest, “And where might we be going?”

“The forest!” Chayanne exclaims.

Oh. The forest, of course. It’s the nearest place that isn’t civilization, so it makes sense he’d want to go there. Doesn’t mean Phil can’t hate it. On the bright side, it’s summer, so there won’t be a constant chill.

“I suppose I can come this time,” Phil sighs, “Run this up to Techno for me, would you?”

Chayanne salutes, taking the sandwich as Phil returns the gesture. The boy goes on his way, and Phil watches with something tight in his chest. 

He turns to go to his study, colored light coming in through the stained glass window on the far side. Kristin sits in an armchair, reading. She pauses when he enters and she smiles at him.

“Something on your mind?” She asks, closing the book on her finger. It’s some kind of journal about herbs and medicines. Kristin has always been interested in those sorts of remedies, so much so that she and Tommy have not only plants around the house but a garden as well. Safe to say, their kids never got more than a scraped knee when they were little.

“Not at the moment, no,” Phil replies, “Chayanne asked to go on an adventure with me to the woods, so I thought I’d let you know.”

“The woods?” Kristin’s face scrunches up, “Do you want me to go with him? I don’t mind.”

“No, no, it’ll do us both some good to get out of the house,” Phil says, “I was thinking of getting Tallulah to come too. She’s been holed up in her room for too long.”

Kristin hums, nodding. “Okay. And I think bringing Tallulah would be a wonderful idea—I’ve been a bit worried about her, too. I’m just glad she’s not in that big old house by herself.”

“Me too.”

“Enjoy your adventure,” Kristin smirks, “And Phil? If it does get a little too much, feel free to bring them back. They wouldn’t want to hurt you because they were bored.”

Phil smiles, nodding. After a goodbye, he returns to the kitchen, heading toward the stairs as Chayanne prances down them.

“Ready,” he chirps, standing at attention.

“Great. I was thinking we should see if Tallulah would want to come, though?” Phil suggests.

He can see the moment Chayanne fully considers it, a plethora of possibilities shining in his eyes. “I’ll go get her!”

Before Phil can say anything, he’s running back up the stairs. He sighs fondly, following but heading to his and Kristin’s room. There’s just a couple things he needs from here before he’s ready. 

His hat, draped over the old bronze swinging arm lamp by the armchair. His old set of throwing knives in a shoebox at the bottom of the closet. A bright blue scarf the twins got him for his birthday one year. He hardly ever leaves without it, but… it’s summer. It’s not the season. Phil can leave it behind just this once.

Quiet chatter fills the hall just outside. 

“—omise, it’ll be fun,” Chayanne is saying, “I’ll be right there with you the entire time.”

“I’ll be fine, you don’t have to worry about me, Chay,” Tallulah replies quietly, “Look after yourself.”

“I know. And I will. But sometimes it’s just nice to have someone looking out for you.”

Tallulah hums. “Yeah. It is.”

Phil steps into the hall, seeing the kids just outside Tallulah’s room. They’re ready to go, shoes on and practice blades at the ready. Tallulah has a small bag that she uses to carry essentials—snacks, an extra knife, her inhaler.

Only the most necessary of things.

“Are we ready?” He asks, and the two nod.

Phil lets Chayanne lead the way today. It’s his idea after all, and Phil would rather focus on the kids more than going a certain direction.

The trees are tall, a mix of oak and spruce. Phil spent a lot of time here before his games, darting in and out of the trunks, jumping over fallen ones like he lived there his whole life. He knew where the caves are should it rain, the creeks for a hot day. 

He thinks he still does know, something etched in his mind that could never leave, simply waiting to see the day again.

Chayanne walks with purpose but never strays too far from either of them. He’s more… attentive than usual. Phil has taken him to many places, and he always has an energy about him that seems to propel him onward. Now, though, he’s restrained. Patient. He’s mindful of where Phil and Tallulah are constantly. It’s new.

“What’s up for today, Chayanne?” Phil asks.

“Nothing,” the boy shrugs, “Just wanted to get out.”

Phil hums, but doesn’t take it as truth. Chayanne usually has reasons for everything. There was that ‘adventure’ to the market for pumpkin seeds, or to the valley to look at the stars. He has goals. More than just ‘getting out.’

But for now, Phil accepts it.

Chayanne tries to get Tallulah out of her shell, cycling from jokes to quiet conversation to subdued humming. She smiles, appreciative, but it’s clear she just doesn’t feel like talking that much.

They don’t walk in a straight line, making it hard for Phil to track the way home in his mind. Again, Chayanne seems to know exactly where to go. He’s not fooling anyone.

After a little more walking, he grins, running forward. Phil calls after him, staying behind with Tallulah. Chayanne doesn’t slow. 

Tallulah and Phil share a look—Chayanne is just so iconically himself, and it’s always nice to see things stay the same. They catch up with him quickly. He’d only gone just ahead, and stopped at a tall pine. Tallulah stares at the needles on the ground with a frown.

“You wanted to see a tree, mate?” Phil laughs, tuning out the screams echoing in his mind. This is a different forest. He’s with his kids. This is fine.

“No. This is the tree,” Chayanne says, stepping to the side.

Looking at it now, the bark is imperfect—names are carved into the wood, full of care and yet they’re still lopsided and misshapen. They’re signatures, but more than that, they’re his kids’ signatures.

Techno. Wilbur. Tommy. Chayanne.

They’re all there, in one place like they’ll never be again. Perfectly frozen in time, moments lost to Phil, but so alive in his imagination. The four of them smiling, laughing, and making their marks.

“When did you boys do this?” He breathes, fingers ghosting over the carvings.

“Techno and Wil did it first,” Chayanne says, “When they were Tommy’s age. Then they brought us out here, and let us add our names.”

“They let you hold a knife?” Phil asks. He really shouldn’t be surprised, but…

“I did just fine!” Chayanne insists, pointing at his name with pride.

“You did,” Phil agrees, “I’m not saying you didn’t. I’m sure they supervised you, and you weren’t hurt, so… I suppose it’s fine.”

It was years ago. Best not to dredge things up from the past, not now of all times. It’s unimportant now.

Chayanne turns to Tallulah, hesitant but smiling. Phil looks too, but she’s staring at the names on the tree with an almost haunted haze over her eyes.

“Tallu, I was thinking you could add your name, if you wanted?” Chayanne asks, “I mean, you’re family, so…”

Tallulah blinks, turning her attention to Chayanne. She’s a bit taken aback, eyes widening, but after a moment, she just fishes her knife from her bag.

It takes her a moment to settle on a place. It’s off to the side, a little between Wilbur and Chayanne’s names. There, but not quite with the others. Separate but together.

They wait patiently as she carves every letter, a focused frown on her face. Her brows are furrowed in concentration. It’s as though this is the most important task in her life at the moment. 

When Tallulah is done, her eyes shine, though she remains composed. She sniffs and shoves her knife back in her bag. “There.”

“Looks perfect,” Phil says, “Fits right in.”

“It’s okay,” Tallulah says. She stares at the names a bit longer, not even a bird interrupting the silence. “Can we go back now? It’s a bit hot outside.”

“Yeah,” Chayanne smiles, “I just wanted to show Dad and let you join in.”

So the trio start to head back. Chayanne leads the way, all in a rush. Phil chuckles to himself but hangs back with Tallulah. She shouldn’t push herself, and would probably get lost without him or Chayanne to help.

They continue on in semi-comfortable silence, though Phil still feels as though something hangs between them.

He doesn’t say, though. Time is the best healer, the thing people need the most after something as tormenting as the games.

Until Phil steps on a branch, and though he continues on, Tallulah halts.

Of course, he notices right away, especially when her breath starts picking up. Phil turns to find Tallulah staring at the ground, a few tears slipping from her eyes. 

“Tallulah?” Phil asks, but she doesn’t so much as move, “Tallulah!”

He backtracks, kneeling in front of her. She doesn’t appear to notice that, either.

Shit, now is not the place for this to happen. It’s precisely why Phil doesn’t like coming here—it sets him off, sometimes, and it’s best to avoid that given the chance. He should have known there was a good shot Tallulah would experience something similar.

“Come on, Tallulah, you gotta tell me what’s wrong, mate,” Phil says softly, taking one of her hands and squeezing, “Then I can help.”

A moment passes where nothing happens, just Tallulah trying to steady her breath. But then, ever so quietly, she whispers, “They’re—they’re coming.”

“Who?”

“The—” Tallulah is cut off, choking on air.

Phil curses, rifling through her bag until he finds her inhaler. He grabs it and brings it to her mouth so she actually receives air on her next breath. Tallulah takes the inhaler herself, taking her time to calm down.

“There you go,” Phil mumbles, encouraging, “You’re okay. I’m right here, we’re in Twelve. Chayanne took us to see the tree, remember? You’re doing great, Tallulah, just take your time.”

After a couple more breaths, Tallulah puts the inhaler away, reaching back out for Phil. He lets her stumble forward, clinging onto him, sniffling and crying quietly. 

“It’s okay,” Phil promises, keeping her steady, “We’re just in the woods. Listen to the wind—it’s telling you we’re safe. Keep listening to my voice, okay?” He turns when he hears footsteps, ready to shoo anyone away, but… “You hear that? It’s just Chayanne. He’s here too.”

“Not the Careers?” Tallulah manages through sniffles and hiccuping breaths.

Careers… like the ones who chased her and Wilbur through a forest not too unlike this one. Who nearly succeeded in killing him… and would have, had Tallulah not—

“No,” Phil mutters, “No Careers here. No monsters. It’s all in your head, just a nightmare.”

“Are you okay, Lulah?” Chayanne asks quietly, hovering off to the side with worry in his voice.

Tallulah rests her head on Phil’s shoulder and throws Chayanne a thumbs up. He relaxes a bit, though not fully. He’s more alert than ever, it seems. Phil can’t exactly be mad about that. 

“Why don’t we go home?” Phil suggests, “Would that make you feel better?”

Tallulah nods, so then Chayanne immediately agrees, of course. It’s settled. Phil scoops her up, letting her recover a bit more and focus on calming herself. Chayanne sticks close at his side, visibly concerned but not bringing it up.

Before long, Tallulah falls asleep. Memories like that take a lot out of a person.

“Did she not like the tree?” Chayanne asks quietly.

“No, mate, it wasn’t that,” Phil reassures him, “I think it was very nice of you to include her in that. It probably helped, if anything.”

The younger blonde nods, though it erases none of the worry. “Then… did I upset her?”

Phil almost laughs at the absurdity of the thought. Tallulah is one of the sweetest kids he knows, and while there’s no doubt she’s been through hell, that remains true. And Chayanne is her best friend. Even if he did manage to upset her, she wouldn’t be mad. Not for long, at least.

“Of course not, Chayanne,” Phil replies, “I think I stepped on a branch and it spooked her. She’s okay, though.”

He nods again as though Phil is sharing the secrets of the universe. “Is it ‘cause of the games?”

“It is.”

“Will she be okay?” Chayanne asks, voice laced with all the hope a child’s voice can carry.

“Of course she will. There’s no doubt in my mind about it.”

~ ~ ~

(Techno spent his entire birthday out of the house. He must have left at the crack of dawn, nowhere to be seen.

They look for a while, gifts left abandoned on the living room table, but come up empty.

It’s all in vain.

When Phil wakes up the next day, Kristin says he’d come back after midnight and gone straight upstairs.

They never knew where he’d been.)

~ ~ ~

The summer turns into a brisk autumn, just on the cusp of the leaves turning a myriad of warm colors.

It’s late one night when sleep eludes Phil, no matter how tired he is. He’s not sure why—is he too alert for a nightmare that may not happen? Is he just not comfortable? Is a phantom plaguing his mind and memories?

There is just no answer.

Carefully, Phil gets out of bed, quiet as a mouse. He should at least try to get a little sleep, but lying there in silence won’t do anything. He can quickly make some tea to help, as much as he despises the taste.

Phil finds himself pausing in the hall, however. At the top of the stairs, moonlight casting the entryway below in pale white light, he hears something. Someone downstairs is crying. 

He’d like to say this isn’t a common occurrence—catching someone crying, that is. He would be lying. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that Phil’s heart breaks a bit more every time he hears it. He descends the stairs as soundlessly as possible.

Tommy sits on the floor by the coffee table, leaning his side onto an armchair. His back is to the stairs, and his gaze is pinned to his lap. Phil’s feet touch the floor. The teen doesn’t startle.

He crosses the short distance, peeking over the back of the couch. “Tommy?”

Then the blonde jumps, looking over his shoulder. His blue eyes are impossibly wide and watery like the fountains of the Capitol, crystal clear tears pouring out en masse. “Dad?”

He sounds terrible, and he seems to realize it, not asking anything else.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Phil answers anyway, “Why are you crying, though? It’s awfully late. You should be in bed, at the very least.”

Tommy is quiet for a moment, so Phil sits on the floor beside him. As soon as he does, Tommy turns to lean into his side, revealing an old photo album in his lap.

“Wilbur always loved autumn,” he mumbles, the words trailing off into a shuddering breath, “All the—the leaves and—and it’s not too cold, and sometimes we’d get—we’d get that hot chocolate, and—”

He breaks off into a sob. Phil wraps an arm around his shoulder, letting the teen cry it all out.

“Hey, hey, it’s… you’re okay,” he says, “How about we put away the pictures, yeah?”

“No!” Tommy cries, affixing his grip on the book, “No, I—I’m okay!”

“You’re not, mate,” Phil says lightly, “And this is only making you worse. You’re not gonna stop crying and feel better if you intentionally do things to upset you.”

“But I miss him. I…” Tommy trails off, glancing down at the book. There’s a picture of him and Wilbur when Tommy was just a toddler. Wilbur was trying to teach him to read using a picture book. “I don’t want to forget his face.”

It’s a silent, almost guilty worry, a fear so potent it cuts like a knife. But Phil understands completely.

“Mate…”

“And why should I feel better?” Tommy asks, “That’d be like… like I’m forgetting him. Like a betrayal, and I can’t do that to him.”

“Tommy, he wouldn’t want you to be upset,” Phil says, “Least of all making yourself upset for his sake. He’d never want that.”

The teen’s frown deepens, but he nods slowly. The silence is delicate, and Phil doesn’t know if he wants to break it or not. Sometimes the shards are beautiful. Sometimes they cut. The gamble may not be worth it, not now. 

But he doesn’t have to. Tommy unfurls, flipping the page of the album. It’s all four of them, Chayanne just a baby—a rather unhappy one. His pudgy little face is screwed up in displeasure, red with screaming tears. Wilbur is mid-flinch, covering a clueless Tommy’s ears. Techno stares at the camera like he wants to leave.

“I like this one,” Tommy huffs, fingers resting on the corner.

“So does your mom,” Phil smiles. Something hurts looking at it, the boys so young and happy. Part of him thinks he took those years for granted, and the other knows he did.

Now they’re merely memories.

“Techno looks so fuckin’ done,” Tommy laughs shakily.

“Chayanne was a crier. I don’t blame him,” Phil says, “Your mom and I were too busy laughing to really notice, though.”

“I didn’t even realize, and he was right next to me,” Tommy says, “Look at me, I look like a fish.”

“A little bit,” Phil huffs a laugh. Tommy’s eyes were wide, mouth shaped like a small ‘o.’ But his face was oddly confused for someone so tiny. “I think you were just surprised, though.”

“Maybe,” Tommy agrees, “Wil was always looking out for me, wasn’t he?”

Phil thinks back on every moment of Tommy’s life—when he scraped his knee outside, when he burned his hand cooking, when his favorite plant wilted… of course, every moment, someone made sure he was okay. Usually he or Kristin, since they’re adults, but…

Wilbur always took his big brother duties very seriously. He couldn’t baby Techno, so once Tommy came around, he fell into the role easily and readily.

He was the one who picked Tommy up and brought him inside. Who yelled for Kristin when Tommy touched a hot pan. Who reassured him that all the plant needed was a little love and water.

Who covered his ears when a baby screamed. And who, in spite of the consequences, stood tall in the Justice Building as he said goodbye, promising his little brothers he would be okay. That he would be home.

“He was,” Phil agrees, “He loved looking out for you and Chay.”

“Who will do that now, though?”

It’s a silly question. Phil and Kristin will always be here, and Techno’s their older brother too. Hell, Tallulah might be younger, but she’s just as capable.

But there’s nuance to the question—it’s as though he’s wondering who will take Wilbur’s place, when in reality, nobody could.

“No one,” Phil says softly, pulling him closer, “Nobody could fill his shoes. But that doesn’t mean you’re alone, hm? We just have to adjust as best we can.”

“Can we, though?”

“We have to. And whether we like it or not, we will. One day, today will be a distant memory, just like these,” Phil mumbles, tapping at the book. 

“I don’t like that,” Tommy decides. 

“Nobody does,” Phil says, “That doesn’t change anything, though.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything else. He just flips through the book, Phil looking over his head at the photos. Every now and then, Tommy will point at one, smile, and wipe his eyes.

They stay like that until the sun comes up, Tommy just falling asleep.

Only then does Phil finally rest, too.

~ ~ ~

One day, when the kids are at school, it hits them just how empty the house is.

No footsteps, no chatter, no songs, not a sound. But the scariest part? It sounds no different from usual.

The house has been quiet for a long time.

Even now, at the table in the kitchen, sipping coffee in the morning light, it feels… odd. Despite doing this a million times over, it feels wrong.

Phil says as much.

“Well, a lot has changed in the past few months,” Kristin says, fingers curled around her mug.

Months. The word is a knife to the heart that Phil is afraid to pull out.

“It has,” he agrees, sipping on his drink. It’s sweet, almost too much so for his mood. “I can’t believe how long it’s been.”

“Neither can I.”

“How are you, Kris?”

She hums, sipping her coffee with a quirked brow. “What do you mean?”

“You always seem fine, but I just thought I’d ask to make sure.”

Kristin sighs, setting her mug down and staring at the coffee within. “Terrible.”

Phil honestly wasn’t expecting so blunt an answer. But it fits, especially given that it’s just them. Alone.

“Me too,” he says quietly.

“I would do… anything to go back,” Kristin murmurs, “Absolutely anything. Five months, a year… however long. Any amount of time would be a blessing.”

It feels familiar, in a way. Like they’re eighteen years younger and saying goodbye in the Justice Building, wishing against the gears of time for any more moments together.

Phil thought he’d die then, much like now. But he persists.

“A couple weeks ago, I found Tommy looking at pictures,” he says, “All I wanted was for them to be that little again.”

Kristin smiles, eyes sparkling with sadness. “They won’t ever be. All we can hope is that they’ll keep growing.”

That’s the grim, dark truth, isn’t it? You waste away their teenage years hoping they reach nineteen, so then they can be free. Unburdened. But then you’re left wondering if the monster that snatched their youth was a blessing or curse; and if it was you.

And if it isn’t you, it’s the Capitol when they’re called for the Reaping, forever young.

Both alternatives seem like death sentences in this world.

“At least we’re together,” Phil says. No matter what, it will be them until the end of time. Kristin hasn’t left no matter the trials and tribulations, not even when he might have died in the games. Nothing could ever hope to split them.

“We are,” she confirms, reaching out to take his hand, voice thick with emotion, “I love our family, Phil. I just want us to stay together.”

“And we will,” he promises, “I won’t let anyone else hurt us. Not if I can help it.”

Phil squeezes her hand, and they smile at each other, a sliver of peace in the chaos of the world. It makes him feel a bit better. And that’s a big step in the right direction.

In the back of his mind, Phil can hear Techno’s angry determination fizzling out into broken sobs. He hears Etoiles’ roundabout way of suggesting a revolution as they sit right in the heart of corruption.

He can’t just let his family remain these jagged shards with no hope of being whole again. In no world will he put his boys through another Reaping just to lose them. Never again.

Maybe Phil can do more than just hope. Maybe together they can do something right for once in this world.

~ ~ ~

Winter comes quickly after that. Snow blankets the ground, a frigid breeze cutting through the air. The entire atmosphere takes on a grayish hue that makes it seem like an alien planet.

Tomorrow, Phil and Tallulah leave for the Victory Tour. Tallulah’s been dreading it for weeks. She almost refused to go, but Phil promised he’d be there every step of the way.

Before he goes, he has one thing he wants to do.

The black box sits on Phil’s desk, the necklace in his hands. It’s on a new chain, an old, rusted silver chain. He’s spent the better half of the past hour making sure it’s spotless. Some of the scratches didn’t come off, and there’s a chunk missing, but… it’s mostly there. That’s what matters. It’s the best Phil can do.

He might have to leave, even if he doesn’t want to, but… he doesn’t have to leave without something to keep him close.

Phil gets up, looping the chain around his wrist. The emerald sits in his palm, a familiar presence. He heads through the kitchen, smiling at Kristin and Tommy where they sit on the couch in the living room as he passes by. 

He goes upstairs, knocking on Techno’s door. He calls for Phil to come in, so he does, and finds Techno looking a bit better as the weeks have gone by.

A while ago, Techno cut his hair. It’s shoulder length now, and it suits him, for sure, but it’s… an adjustment.

Phil thinks he just didn’t want to see his hair fall into disarray, but didn’t want to let anyone else maintain it. Wilbur always did.

Maybe one day Techno will grow it back out. He always liked it long, even if Chayanne would tug on it when he was little.

“I have something for you,” Phil says, shutting the door. He sits on the edge of Techno’s bed, facing him, “Hold out your hand.”

“Why?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises,” Techno deadpans.

“You’ll find it out in a minute, just—” Phil gestures with his free hand, trying to coax Techno into agreement. “You’re no fun. Entertain me, won’t you?”

Techno rolls his eyes but holds out his hand. Phil grabs it, slipping the necklace off and into his grip. He lets go, leaving the accessory in Techno’s hand.

He stares at it, grabbing the chain between two fingers and cupping the emerald in his palm. “Dad, this is…”

“The emerald I gave to Wil,” Phil confirms, “Now I’m giving it to you.”

“Why?” Techno croaks, clutching the gem.

“Because,” Phil says, “I want to. And this way, though I’ll be away for a bit, it’ll be like I’m still here. And Wilbur can be with you.”

Techno presses his lips in a thin line, nodding. Carefully, he unclasps the necklace and loops it around his neck, setting it there. The emerald sparkles, worn and well-loved.

“Thanks, Dad,” Techno mumbles, still clutching the emerald, “I… I love it.”

“Of course, mate,” Phil smiles, pulling him into a hug, “I’ll be back before you know it. But hopefully, this’ll help while I’m away and long after I’m back.”

“It will,” Techno promises, “And I’ll… I’ll take good care of it.”

“I know you will. I wouldn’t trust it with anyone else.”

Two halves of a matching set… Phil gave his to Wilbur as a good luck charm, a reminder of home and family. It’s a miracle it even survived, and now… it can go to Wilbur’s other half.

While wearing it, Techno won’t have to be alone ever again.

~ ~ ~

“Ready?” Phil asks, adjusting his bright blue scarf.

Everyone is gathered in the entryway, ready to send him and Tallulah off. They’ve always seen him off to mentor for the games, so his absence isn’t technically new, but… he’s never been away on a Victory Tour before.

“I think so,” Tallulah says, adjusting her peacoat. Kristin sets a hat atop her curls.

“We’ll be home before you know it,” Phil says, looking out over his family, “It shouldn’t be awful, to be honest. It’ll just be a lot of talking and a lot of bullshit.”

“At least it’ll be easy,” Kristin says with a smile.

“You’re gonna do great, Lulah,” Chayanne grins, “I know it.”

“I’ll try,” the girl replies, rocking back and forth on her heels, “Hopefully it’ll be fine.”

“It will be,” Techno says in a rare bout of optimism. He sets a hand on Tallulah’s head. “You’ve got this, kid.”

She smiles, mirroring Kristin’s. Tommy nods and gives her a thumbs up while Chayanne decides to tackle her into a hug. 

Phil laughs, moving on to say his goodbyes. He hugs each one of them, kissing Kristin on the cheek. Tallulah goes through and hugs each of them, muttering her gratitude and a goodbye.

Then they have to leave. Drawing it out any longer will only make it hurt more. 

Tallulah waves at the others one last time as they leave, Phil stepping out into the snow first. His boots crunch the powder beneath his feet in a satisfying sound. Tallulah jumps into it, snow puffing up where her feet land. 

The door shuts behind them, and it’s just them once more. Phil and Tallulah. They leave the village, their footprints the only thing marring the crisp white snow. Tallulah seems in better spirits now, looking around with a glimmer in her eyes and a rosy flush in her cheeks from the cold.

“I think you’ll at least like seeing the other Districts,” Phil says as they walk, “I’ve heard some of them are warm this time of year.”

“Really?” Tallulah asks, “Why’s that?”

“They’re further down in the country,” Phil explains, “So they’re warmer. We’ll see my friend Cellbit first, in Eleven. It’s nice there, he says—has to be for farming.”

“Is he nice?”

Phil thinks back to Cellbit’s games. He did what he had to, much like the rest of them. Cellbit made alliances and broke them just as easily, playing the other tributes like nothing more than a game.

But he took in a kid, Richarlyson. He’s head over heels for Roier—anyone could see that clear as day. He’s close with his sister, and always cares about everyone else…

The games don’t make you, nor do they break you. They always linger but don’t define.

“He is. I think you’d get along with him,” Phil says, “And he has a kid about your age, I believe. Maybe one day, if you meet, you could be friends.”

“Maybe,” she hums, “I’m not… I’m not really worried about looking for friends right now.”

Phil smiles. He knows the feeling. When he got home, he just wanted to be with Kristin, not anyone else who might want a sense of prestige or some reward money.

Kids aren’t usually like that, though. And Tallulah has a whole family looking out for her.

“That’s okay, I get it,” Phil says, “I never really connected with anyone here. My friends are the other victors. They understand more than most, but even then, our experiences are not quite the same.”

“Yeah,” Tallulah agrees, “It’s weird now. All the kids my age seem so… different.”

He knows what she means—they all hold an innocence she lacks. Tallulah killed, she saw death firsthand and brought it about by her fingertips. No other kid will experience that.

“Well, nobody is as special as you,” Phil remarks.

Tallulah snorts. “Sure. That’s the word.”

“It is,” Phil insists, “You’re gonna do great things, Lulah, I know it.”

She just shrugs, burying her head in her scarf to try and hide her smile. They’re silent as they peruse through town, heading for the Justice Building where the train is waiting to pick them up.

“Alright,” he says, the train in sight, “After you, Tallulah.”

She bows, laughing, and steps on the train. Phil follows close behind, leaving no room for them to be separated. He’s not leaving her side during this trip, and she sticks close to his.

Tallulah plops down on the couch, taking off her layers until she’s in her bright yellow sweater and dark red jeans. “How long until we get to Eleven?”

“Not too long,” Phil replies, taking off his scarf and coat, “A few hours at most. We’re not headed to the Capitol, so it shouldn’t take so long.”

“What happens then?”

“I write you a speech, you say the speech,” Phil says, “Simple as that. You can veer off course, I don’t mind, but… it might be wise to stay away from showing any dislike of the Capitol.”

Tallulah’s face sours. “But—”

“Believe me, I know,” Phil sighs, taking a seat on the opposite couch, “But it’s safe to just let them have a little praise, yeah? Let’s just say, some other people in the past have not done so, and things didn’t turn out so great for them.”

“That’s not fair,” Tallulah grumbles, crossing her arms, “They put us in there, and what? I have to thank them for it?!”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Phil says, “It reflects poorly on us both if you don’t. And… we have some common interests and contacts the Capitol could exploit.”

Tallulah bites her tongue, demeanor shifting. He hates to see the spark fizzle out, but he can’t have his family hurt. Not for something as simple as a statement. She gets the message, and there’s a haunted, guilty sheen to her eyes that Phil despises. She’s usually so light, so bubbly.

But that’s not sustainable. Everyone has a darker side, something uglier than the facade they put on. Tallulah can be just as volatile as anyone else. She can be just as dark, like an eclipsed sun.

“Okay,” she says quietly, “Stick to the script then.”

“Sadly.”

“Guess I won't say what Techno would say, then?” Tallulah jokes.

Phil chuckles. “Oh, definitely not.”

“There goes my whole plan,” she sighs pointedly, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. Much like Techno, she’s opted to leave her curls down, unruly and unkempt. There’s a common thread there that Phil doesn’t dare tug.

“How about you help me?” Phil suggests, “We could write speeches together for each District. I can just help you with things you should add or leave out.”

Tallulah grins, nodding. “That’d be great. Should we get started now to kill time?”

“A wonderful idea,” Phil smiles, standing, “I’ll go grab some note cards and pens. That should be all we need.”

The ride is fast, much faster than Tallulah expects. She pauses as they stop, face twisted up in confusion, like she thinks something has gone wrong.

Her card is finished, speech perfect and complete with doodles to boot.

“I think you’re ready,” Phil grins, “You’re gonna do great.”

Tallulah nods. The Capitol team touched up her face a bit, which Phil thinks is overkill. But she slapped away a hand that went for her hair, so that remains undone.

Maybe Phil can convince them to stop tormenting the poor girl with all the frivolous cosmetics of this shit. She hates them as much as Wilbur did. They might buy it on the grounds that it would ‘emphasize her youth.’

People pitied the little girl that went into the arena. They should fear the person who came out. But so long as Tallulah can maintain that image of innocence, the same one that garnered sponsors and sympathy? The Capitol would like that.

Tallulah takes a deep breath, and as soon as the door opens, she and Phil step out into the Justice Building of District Eleven.

“Phil!” A familiar voice calls, and he snaps his head to see Cellbit coming toward them with a big smile on his face.

“Cellbit,” Phil greets, hugging his friend when he comes over, “It’s good to see you, mate! How are you?”

“Good,” the other man grins, pulling back, “Richas is a handful as ever, but I think he’s just missing everyone else. He asks for his ‘better dads’ everyday, Phil.”

He laughs at the look on Cellbit’s face, gravely serious with a tiredness tugging at his features. “No way.”

“I wish I were kidding. It’s bad enough he misses Pac, Mike, and Felps. Bagi and I have our work cut out for us,” Cellbit sighs, smiling again and turning to Tallulah, “A pleasure to finally meet you, Tallulah. I’m Cellbit.”

He sticks his hand out, and Tallulah reaches back to shake it. “Nice to meet you too.”

“I was hoping that after Tallulah’s speech, you would come over to mine for lunch,” Cellbit offers, “Bagi and Richarlyson should be there. It could be fun.”

“I think that sounds lovely,” Phil replies, “What do you think, Tallulah?”

“That’s fine,” she agrees, but there’s something subdued about it, like she’s not fully on board. There’s no time to delve into it, though. Tallulah has a speech to give. 

Phil and Cellbit escort her out front, overlooking a crowd. Peacekeepers stand in the front to keep them back. It’s threatening to both sides. The atmosphere is dull, though a little brighter than home. The people watching, however, are just as lifeless, their faces almost blurring together. The only recognizable figures are those of the families of the fallen, hoisted high to the sky so they may be closer to their child and sibling, one last time.

Tallulah walks forward, Phil and Cellbit hanging back. The microphone is adjusted to her height already. She clears her throat to begin as the polite applause dies down.

The note cards are securely in her grip. They’d gone over this a million times, and Phil just hopes it was enough.

“Thank you, everyone,” Tallulah smiles, “It means a lot that I can be here on the tour with all of you lovely, hardworking people, as well as the families of those who fell in the games.”

Each word comes off as genuine, and somewhere deep in Tallulah’s heart, Phil thinks it is. She’s kind in spite of the cruel world that’s scarred her. These people are innocent in the grand scheme of things. Their District is about as impoverished as Twelve, after all. They’re just trying to get by. They can’t afford to worry about justice or corruption.

“I want to offer you all my greatest sympathy and praise,” Tallulah continues. She pauses, glancing down at her card and taking a breath. “I’d like to thank the Capitol for giving me this opportunity to be with you and meet you all. Because of the games, my life has… improved significantly, all thanks to their generosity. I’d also like to say that your tributes fought well, they fought hard, and remained true to their cores throughout. They truly honored all District Eleven stands for. I grieve with you for them today, and celebrate their noble successes, now and forever. I’m honored to be united with them, regardless of victor or vanquished, because we are the same—united under the Capitol. Thank you.”

She waves with a smile, the crowd applauding quietly as she turns. As soon as her face is away from the crowd, Tallulah scowls, all but storming off toward Phil.

Oh no. She did not like that. 

Phil quickly opens the door back inside, going in first with Tallulah following quickly after. Cellbit shuts the door behind them, and Tallulah explodes.

“That sucked!”

“I know,” Phil says, following her up the stairs, Cellbit warily at his side, “But you did great!”

“My life has improved?!” Tallulah exclaims, laughing, “I wasn’t aware! And because of the games? Because of them?! It’s the opposite! They ruined me, Phil, they ruined everything! Why did we even write that, it’s not—”

“Because it’s a lie the Capitol wants everyone to hear,” Phil stresses, “This is just a game, Tallulah, none of this matters. It’s superficial. But you, for everyone’s sake, have to win this game. Play the part, just for a while, okay?.”

Tallulah pauses, looking between him and Cellbit, on the brink of tears. It’s one thing to say the speech back to your mentor, when you can pull a face or laugh something off, but in front of a crowd? It’s all too much.

“It’s all a load of nonsense,” Tallulah mutters.

“It is,” Cellbit says, “But you said at least one thing right.” Tallulah’s curiosity is piqued, and she looks over at him, attention nowhere else. “Regardless of victor or vanquished, we’re all the same. Together, in a sense.”

Out of the corner of Phil’s eye, he swears Wilbur is where Tallulah stands. She has his sweater, after all, though as far as she knows, it’s just one of Chayanne’s. The curls are different, Wilbur had been paler than she’ll ever be, but… in some lights, the eyes are the same.

Victor or vanquished, we’re all the same. It’s a unique notion, one Phil isn’t sure if he buys into. He’s in no way closer to Wilbur now that he’s gone. He’s not closer to the other nameless, faceless kids that died. The living belong with the living, while the dead get to know peace and beauty up in the stars.

But it’s a nice sentiment.

Tallulah doesn’t take it that way, as a comfort. He isn’t even sure if Cellbit intended it that way or if Phil is just subconsciously searching for a comfort that isn’t there.

“Yeah,” Tallulah agrees bitterly, “We are the same aren’t we? Under the Capitol.”

After a tense moment, Phil laughs. “You’ve been spending too much time with Techno.”

Tallulah scoffs in amusement. “I can’t help it if he’s right.”

“I know. And he usually is.”

About… a lot of things. Techno is smart—sometimes Phil thinks more so than he can comprehend. He knows the answer to every question, knows every inch of their bloodstained history. Techno has tried before to put together stories for past fallen tributes, but they don’t have a place in history. They’re only remembered for appearances, and once the spotlight leaves, only their family champions them until their dying breaths.

Eventually, even faces fade, even names die out. Techno never got far with his research, especially with Twelve’s resources. 

“How about we grab some lunch?” Cellbit asks, “If you’re hungry?”

“I’d love to,” Phil answers, “Tallulah?”

“Sure,” she agrees, taking a step closer to Phil, “Let’s go.”

~ ~ ~

Victor’s Village in Eleven looks rather similar to that in Twelve. It’s a different area with new trees, and frankly, there are more winners and more families.

Cellbit leads them to his house, nearly identical to the others in the neighborhood save for the worn beige color it boasts. Different colored handprints rim the door, each with a name inside the palm.

“Richas’ idea,” Cellbit explains, pointing at the smallest one, a bright blue, “He accidentally tripped coming in from finger painting outside and decided instead of cleaning it, we should make it a design choice.”

“Worked out though, didn’t it?” Phil asks.

“Yeah. Before the others were relocated, we did it. Felps’ was really funny, actually. He was first. Richas tackled him and shoved his hand in a paint can,” Cellbit laughs, opening the door.

He calls out that he’s back and has guests, letting Phil and Tallulah step in. It’s a very personable house, art all over the walls and sometimes scribbled onto the walls themselves. Each work is remarkable.

Footsteps sound out, fast as lightning. “Pai Pac? Pai Mike?”

A blur crashes into Cellbit’s side, nearly taking him down. But he just laughs, setting a hand on the kid’s knit hat. His hair covers his eyes, strokes of paint on his cheeks and arms. An oversized yellow t-shirt hangs down to his knees.

“No, this is Phil and Tallulah,” Cellbit says, “I told you they’d be coming, remember?”

Richarlyson doesn’t falter, just grinning as he turns to them. “Hi! Nice to meet you guys!”

“You too, mate,” Phil smiles.

Tallulah hums. “You too.”

“Would you wanna draw, Tallulah?” Richarlyson asks, “I have lots of paper, and canvases, and pencils and crayons.”

Phil squeezes Tallulah’s shoulder, nodding encouragingly. “Go on. It’ll be fun.”

She takes a breath, a smile poking at her cheeks. “That sounds nice.”

“Great!” Richarlyson chirps. He grabs Tallulah’s hand and runs away, Tallulah scrambling to keep up. Phil laughs as they go, disappearing in a split second.

“He gets excited,” Cellbit says, apologetic, “He’s a little much for the kids around here.”

“He seems like a great kid,” Phil reassures him, “And talented too. His pictures are amazing.”

“Aren’t they?” Cellbit beams in pride. “I love them. He always gets so excited to show us what he’s made.”

Phil knows that well. Visions flood his mind, a toothy smile and bright brown eyes full of glee, a guitar in hand and a handwritten song on his tongue; dirt-covered hands and an uncharacteristically gentle voice showing Phil the latest plant; a hand sliding him a small stack of papers, a book, as he catches the tail-end of a growing pink braid disappear around the corner; a ball of energy shoving new foods his way, waiting patiently to hear Phil’s verdict. 

His boys have a lot of hobbies. Phil adores seeing the fruits of their labors, their little creations. It’s an insight into their hearts. Phil is always honored to be let in. 

“I think he and Tallulah will get along,” Phil remarks, “They’re polar opposites, but maybe that’s just what they need.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Cellbit says, “Come on, Bagi should be in the office. We have some things we’d like to discuss before we eat.”

Phil nods, following his friend, but he can’t help but be a little worried. Cellbit—and his sister, from what he’s heard—have always been geniuses, looking to solve something. Apparently, Bagi tried to find a way to stop Cellbit’s games before the arena so he wouldn’t have to compete.

It didn’t go well. There aren’t any loopholes once the tributes are picked, and Bagi couldn’t volunteer after Cellbit was chosen. The only thing her efforts accomplished was putting her in prison for a bit, and a Capitol watchlist ever since. 

If there’s something those two need to discuss, it reeks of trouble. But that also means it’s serious. Phil would never dismiss their concerns so readily.

Cellbit lets him into the study first, shutting the door behind them. Bagi looks up from the chair, split-dyed hair pulled back. She takes off a pair of reading glasses and smiles.

“You must be Phil!” She says, “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“You as well,” Phil smiles back, taking the seat Cellbit offers him.

The desk is covered in papers, drawings and words messily covering them. Even the books on the shelves around the room are haphazardly arranged, as though they’ve been taken off and flipped through millions of times. 

Bagi holds up a sheet of paper, the words ‘DON’T TALK’ written in big letters. “That was a lovely speech Tallulah gave,” she says, setting it down and writing more. 

THEY’RE ALWAYS LISTENING.

They… the Capitol. They give homes to the victors of the games, but no, they could never let them be free. Of course they’re bugged, at least in certain places. 

It makes Phil wonder…

“Yes,” he says, “We worked on it the entire train ride.”

“Your effort paid off,” Cellbit says, leaning on the desk, “Personally, I thought it was perfect.”

Bagi is still writing, so Phil responds to give her time. “I’m glad. She was really nervous, I think. Something about being there alone made it different from the interviews. She was addressing the crowd, not one person.”

The pen stops, Bagi holding up the sheet.

WE THINK WE’VE FOUND SOMEWHERE. IT COULD BE A PLACE OF OPERATIONS, A SAFE HAVEN FOR US AND ALL OUR LOVED ONES. NO MORE GAMES, NO MORE LOSS.

No more…

That gets Phil’s attention. All he wants now is for the rest of his family to be safe. He can’t change the past, but the future is up for grabs. 

“I’d imagine it’d be nerve wracking to go up there at her age,” Bagi says, “What do you think?”

The twins look at Phil pointedly, waiting for a response. He thinks he understands.

“I agree,” he says, the two grinning like this is just a game to them, “But are you sure that that’s all? I just want to make sure she’s okay in all this.”

Cellbit motions for the paper, letting him and Bagi continue their repertoire.

“I do think that’s all. She’s a strong kid, her nerves will ease eventually,” Bagi says, “Besides, she has you to help her.”

Phil hums, turning to see Cellbit’s writing.

WE’VE HEARD RUMORS. IT SHOULD BE TOTALLY SAFE, WE JUST HAVE TO GATHER EVERYONE AND GO.

“But what can I do about it?” Phil asks, “Sometimes, I feel like being a mentor just isn’t enough.”

A brief silence while Cellbit writes. Apparently they don’t think it will be suspicious enough of a gap to fill. They wait until Cellbit finishes, turning the paper.

ON THE TOUR, YOU NEED TO GET EVERYONE WE KNOW ON BOARD, VICTOR OR NOT.

Bagi looks at it, nodding. She ponders her next words a moment. “At the end of the day, all you can do is try, Phil.”

“That’s all anyone can do,” Cellbit agrees, sliding his sister the notepad. She takes it, writing. It’s scary how in sync they are, but Phil raised Wilbur and Techno, so he’s used to it.

“That won’t be easy,” Phil sighs.

“But you already are. And you’re doing great. Just keep it up, and it’ll all work out.”

Bagi holds up the next message.

CONVINCE THEM, AND THEN WHEN IT'S TIME, SEND CELL A THUMBS UP. TELL EACH PERSON TO WAIT OUTSIDE THEIR DISTRICT’S VICTOR’S VILLAGE, AND WE’LL PICK EVERYONE UP.

“How?” Phil asks, furrowing his brow.

Bagi quickly writes a reply. 

WE STEAL A JET.

“That’s up to you, Phil,” Cellbit smiles, “All you can do is keep doing what you’re doing.”

“And,” Bagi voices, still writing, “Let everyone else worry about the rest. You’ll have your hands full with Tallulah and the tour. Focus on that.”

She flips a page.

THIS COULD BE GAME-CHANGING. A BUNKER THAT COULD LAST A THOUSAND LIFETIMES, OUT OF THE CAPITOL’S INFLUENCE. 

And they need Phil—the only one able to move freely and efficiently—to spread the message to their loved ones and friends. It’s… a lot, but…

The idea of a life outside of the games is almost too enticing to pass by.

“Okay,” he decides, “I’ll do my best.”

Both twins beam, Bagi swatting at Cellbit’s shoulder in excitement. She sets down the paper and stands, trying to get rid of her surge of energy.

“That’s great to hear, Phil,” Cellbit grins, “It’s gonna be fine, I promise.”

Somehow, Phil believes that. If this place is real? If they can escape the threat of the games, then… maybe they could finally heal. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be something.

Maybe Phil is greedy, selfish, even, but… oh, how he wants to try.

~ ~ ~

Later, on the train, Phil keeps his thoughts to himself. Tallulah is none the wiser about the weight on his shoulders, and he’d like to keep it that way.

“Next stop, District Ten,” Phil announces, “The speech will be in the morning, not late at night, so we can wind down until we want to head to bed.”

“Who do you know from Ten?” Tallulah asks. She rifles through her drawings—they’re rather good, he thinks. And the smile on Tallulah’s face reveals exactly how she feels about them.

“Carre,” Phil answers, “The Deadly Seventh, as the Capitol calls him. Dumb name, he’s really a nice guy. Great fighter, though.”

He’ll be crucial to have on their side should the Capitol find them out. He’s independent, stealth his niche, and that’s why he thrived in the arena. Carre seemed to disappear from view only to reappear with a sword in another tribute’s chest.

And the crowds went wild.

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Tallulah says, “Any kids my age?”

Phil smiles knowingly. “Not to my knowledge, why? Did you and Richarlyson have fun?”

Tallulah nods, organizing her pictures and sitting beside Phil on the couch. She hands them over with a smile. “Yeah. It was actually really fun. I’ve never really drawn before, but he’s really good at it.”

“So are you,” Phil says, sifting through the drawings. There’s one of Richarlyson, some random objects around the house, some made up creatures, one of Chayanne, one of Phil… each one is amazing in his eyes. “We should hang these up somewhere.”

“No!” Tallulah exclaims, embarrassed, “No we do not have to do that.”

“But they’re so good—”

“Maybe back home,” Tallulah cedes, “Maybe.”

Phil smiles. She says maybe, but all Phil can hear is the word ‘home.’ She thinks of their house as a home, and it’s wonderful to hear. 

So he hands the drawings back over. Tallulah holds them tight to her chest, an odd look washing over her face.

“Everything alright?” Phil asks.

Tallulah smiles wearily, looking far too old for her age. “I’m not glass.”

“What do you mean?” Phil asks, brows furrowing.

“Richarlyson just looks at me and sees another kid,” Tallulah explains, “A friend. He’s not afraid I’m gonna break or I’m gonna break him. We played hide and seek. We colored. It was nice.”

Phil’s heart twists in his chest. This is the first friend she’s made since Chayanne, and the first since the arena. It’s a big deal. 

“I’m glad you got to be a kid, Tallulah.”

Her eyes get a bit watery, though her smile is pure. “I am too.”

~ ~ ~

Ten passes by quickly. Carre is always straight to the point, and is ready for anything. All Phil had to do was ask.

Nine is much the same. Phil barely writes that Cellbit has a plan and Roier, peeking over his shoulder, immediately agreed, so long as he could bring a friend. Phil let him know that was perfectly fine. 

Quackity agreed as soon as he and Phil sat down for a breather in Eight. “Whatever it is, I say yes,” he’d said, and his answer didn’t change when Phil explained. 

In Seven, Phil had to practically pry Mouse away from Tallulah to talk with her. Luckily, she was babysitting a kid Chayanne’s age—Leo, she’d called them—so Tallulah could play with her for a bit. And Mouse agreed, so all was well.

There was nobody to invite from Six, but there was a kid Tommy’s age that Phil saw tinkering with some model trains. He’d mentioned wanting to escape it all before clamping his mouth shut. The teen—Tubbo, as he found out—seemed like a good kid. He had a way of entertaining Tallulah while subtly shading the Capitol. It might be dangerous, but Phil extended him the offer anyway.

Phil always thought Ramon would get along more with Chayanne from the way Fit talks of him, and that still holds true, but Tallulah is more than willing to look at all his inventions. Fit is easy to convince—he never wants to see Ramon be called as a tribute for Five. Not his boy. Phil knows the feeling.

Felps had been relocated by the Capitol to Four shortly after Cellbit won his games. Both Bagi and Cellbit think it was a sort of punishment for the uproar over Cellbit’s reaping, but they’ll never know for sure. Regardless, Felps jumps at the chance to be with Richarlyson more.

Similar to Felps, Pac and Mike were moved to Three for their talents with technology. Someone must have ratted them out, and the Capitol wants results. They don’t care about family ties or connections. Tallulah plays with some of their inventions while Phil tells them. They’re more than happy to tag along.

When they reach Two, it’s a little different. They’re in Career territory now, and Tallulah is clearly on edge. After all, the girl tribute got a good hit on her at the end. But Etoiles and Baghera are there, easing Tallulah a bit. And she meets Pomme, the two hitting it off instantly. While Phil explains the situation to his friends, the two agree in a heartbeat, Etoiles making a snarky remark that it took Phil long enough. They’ll drag Antoine with them, and Pierre, in a similar case as Pac and Mike, will no doubt come with them. They’ve lost track of Kameto, though. Least they heard, the Capitol moved him to One. Radio silence ever since. 

Phil should have expected things would turn sour eventually. 

Tallulah takes the stage at One, ready to repeat her little speech for the last time. It’s a grand venue full of lots of smartly dressed people. Tallulah looks so very out of place amongst them with her hair she barely combs her fingers through. At least she still likes the different outfits they give her. 

Phil spends all his time glaring at the mentors, two entitled pricks who look down on any victors from Districts higher than Five. Besides, their tributes attacked his kids. He doesn’t let something like that slide. He wouldn’t be surprised if they’re the ones who filled those tributes’ heads with the idea that beating Wil would bring them glory. All the more reason to hate them.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t think Tallulah might be feeling the same.

He tunes back into her speech just as her words turn sour. Or maybe that’s what draws him back in.

“I would like to say your tributes fought nobly, that they fought well, but I won’t insult you by lying,” Tallulah snaps.

Phil blinks, taken aback.

“You can veer off course, I don’t mind, but… it might be wise to stay away from showing any dislike of the Capitol.”

Ripping into District One doesn’t reflect back on the Capitol… but it will certainly piss people off. Phil just doesn’t know if the Capitol will find it amusing or not, if this will shatter the image they have of Tallulah in their minds. 

“I killed them. I did,” Tallulah continues, “But only because I had to. They attacked him, they attacked my brother, and I wasn’t going to stand around and let them! They hurt him, they wanted to kill him, so maybe I don’t regret it. Maybe I’d do it again, because they hunted him like an animal and made a little girl kill just to protect the only person who cared about her in there!

“Their blood may be on my hands, but their deaths were just as much their fault as mine,” Tallulah says, words laced with poison, “We wouldn’t have hurt them had they not tried to kill us. I will say I’m sorry to their families for the grief they’re no doubt going through, but maybe we should question if their mentors prepared them properly if they were willing to send them on a wild goose chase to their deaths.”

The people murmur, some shouting angrily. Peacekeepers move to calm the crowd, and for a moment, Phil just takes in the looks on the other mentors’ faces—complete and utter shock.

Until it morphs into anger.

Phil crosses the stage quickly, grabbing Tallulah by the shoulders and leading her away to safety.

“What were you thinking?!” He hisses, guiding her to the train.

“I was thinking those people were the ones who hurt Wilbur,” Tallulah retorts, crossing her arms, “I’m not going to apologize for being right, Phil.”

“Nobody is asking you to apologize,” Phil sighs, “Not yet, at least. But that was dangerous, Tallulah, you probably made enough enemies for several lifetimes.”

Tallulah sets foot aboard the train, Phil following as the door shuts behind him. They’re safe. Their visit is cut short, but he doesn’t mind that. There have been worse Victory Tours.

“That’s okay,” Tallulah says, gazing out the window, “I’m not gonna pretend to be friends with people who hurt him.”

Phil walks over, leaning back against the glass. “You don’t have to, but you did just fine in Two. That girl hurt you both.”

Tallulah shrugs, puffing her cheeks in frustration. The train starts moving, the landscape rolling by. “I don’t know. I just… that wasn’t as scary, I don’t think. Stressful, yeah, I was scrambling, but I wasn’t afraid. With One, we had to separate. Leaving him while people were looking for him terrified me to no end. I didn’t go too far, but it felt like worlds away. And then they hurt him, they were killing him,” she cuts herself off, sucking in a breath, “Some things can’t be forgiven.”

Phil sighs but nods. He probably would have at least felt the same thing in her position. How would he act? Well, that’s another question. 

But he’s starting to realize he and Tallulah aren’t that different after all. 

~ ~ ~

Phil finally relaxes once he’s back home. Tallulah does too, the last shreds of tension finally leaving her shoulders.

The Capitol had been uneventful. Phil kept the Capitol citizens from hounding the kid, but made sure they got to thank sponsors. It was all around a loathsome affair, and they tried to keep to the edge, entertaining each other by commenting on the guests.

But that’s all in the past.

Tallulah grabs his hand and pulls him along, running from the Justice Building and through the town. Wayward glances are thrown their way, but Phil can’t even catch them, too focused on keeping up his pace.

With how fast they’re going, they reach home rather quickly. Tallulah is just about bursting from the seams as Phil opens the door.

Chayanne and Tommy are already there to greet them, all but tackling him and Tallulah into the snow.

“You’re back!” Tommy cheers, clinging to Phil like a monkey. Tallulah laughs, wrapping her arms around Chayanne.

“We are, mate,” Phil chuckles, ruffling Tommy’s hair, “Can we come inside?”

Tommy pretends to think about it, pulling all sorts of faces, but Chayanne just pulls them in before anyone can even think of leaving again. As soon as they’re inside, safe and warm, they take off their hats and coats, kicking their boots off and hanging their scarves.

Kristin and Techno emerge from whatever parts of the house they’d been in, smiling as they join the crowd. The little family gathers for a group hug, and Phil hasn’t felt this happy since before the games.

He has his surviving family, right here, in his arms. And he has hope that he will be able to keep this gift forever.

A bunker that could last a lifetime and then some, out of the Capitol’s realm of influence. It’s almost too good to be true, yet everyone believes it. And somehow, despite everything, Phil does too.

No more games. No more deaths. Just peace.

“My boys,” Phil mumbles, pressing kisses atop each of their heads. No matter how old or how tall they get, they will never outgrow their father’s affection. “I’m glad to be home. We both are. I… have something to talk to your mother about, though.”

Kristin blinks, surprised. Her eyes narrow out of curiosity. “So soon?”

“It can’t wait,” Phil smiles. 

Techno hums, emerald shining around his neck. “Okay, you three, let’s get out of their hair. Tallulah can tell us all about it.”

He herds them to the living room, Phil and Kristin slipping away to Phil’s office. She sits on a couch by the window, watching Phil as he tries to find paper to write on.

“So…” Kristin says, trailing off.

Phil finally finds some paper, grinning. He takes a seat at his desk, Kristin sitting forward to get a better view.

“I’ve been thinking,” Phil says, “A lot.”

He starts writing, and he doesn’t need to look at Kristin to know she’s amused. She laughs quietly. “Oh no, that might not end well.”

“Nothing crazy,” Phil says, knowing that it’s completely false.

“It has to be a little crazy if you’re checking with me before telling the kids,” Kristin points out. Right as usual, but he just needs a little more time to write. 

“Not necessarily,” he replies, “Just… sentimental.”

Kristin hums, waiting. Phil takes the pause to finish writing, confident the quiet will be taken as a gathering of emotions. Then he holds up the paper for Kristin to see.

THE VICTORS AND I HAVE A PLAN—ONE TO RELOCATE US SOMEWHERE SAFE. NO MORE CAPITOL AND NO MORE GAMES, KRIS, I JUST HAVE TO SEND A TEXT.

Before Kristin can respond, surprise etched into her face, Phil continues.

“I just… Everyday I miss Wil so much it hurts,” he says, “And I think to myself: Phil, you can’t do this again. You know what I mean? I can’t—Kris, I couldn’t do this again. I can’t send another to die, I can’t lose… I can’t kill another of our sons.”

Kristin’s face softens, and she takes the page, flipping it over and scrawling a reply as she talks. “I know, Phil. Love, I know, but… there’s nothing we can do. It’s just the way things are. We just have to have faith in the Capitol.”

She hands it back to Phil, and he smiles, though his eyes water.

I’M IN. WHATEVER WE HAVE TO DO, WE DO. WHEN DO WE LEAVE?

Phil starts writing. 

“I know,” Phil replies, “And I do. I mean, look at the life they gave us. We can do so much for the boys and Tallulah.” The words taste bitter on his tongue. “I just wish Wilbur were here too. But then I feel guilty because Tallulah, and then I just feel worse because it’s Wil—”

He shows Kristin the paper again.

IF I SEND IT NOW, WE SHOULD BE OUT OF HERE TONIGHT.

Kristin nods, expression grave. “It’s complicated,” she says, “And you’re just going to have to work through that. But I know you, and I know you can, Phil. I’m right here with you.”

“And I’m thankful for that every day,” Phil smiles back.

“Me too,” Kristin says softly. She gets up and crosses the short distance between them, pulling him into a hug like she knows his words were all true. Probably because they were. “I’m so glad you told me all this.”

Phil huffs a laugh. “Of course I would. Life partners.”

“Life partners,” she agrees, pulling back, “Now come on. Let’s go be with the kids.”

He couldn’t agree more.

There’s a lot to do before the night, the first of which is sending Cellbit a simple thumbs up. He does that as they leave the study. Then he has to alert some of the others—he texts Tubbo the same, since he’s the only one who can contact the teen, and then Baghera as well. 

Baghera will tell Etoiles, who will text Pac, who will tell Mike, who will text Felps, and so on and so on. Then he tells Cellbit where not to go. Some of them will make fake conversations in case their phones are looked at, but other than that, it’s the start of a new life free from the Capitol spying on them all. 

It’s all set in motion before Phil takes his seat in an armchair, Kristin taking the other.

After a while of catching up, Tallulah regaling them with stories of her new friends, Phil and Kristin fill them in on the plan with the same method of communicating via paper.

Once the realization dawns on them, Techno gets up, almost mechanically, and goes to pack. The others follow his example. Tallulah hugs them both, muttering a thank you to each before going too.

Phil and Kristin pack what they can, things they might miss or need. Kristin takes down every picture in the house, empties every drawer of each loose photograph. Phil gathers the albums.

They pack up everything important into bags and boxes. The memories take up the most room. Together, they pack some of Wilbur’s things to take along. Tommy even has his guitar slung across his back. 

None of them would ever imagine leaving him here alone.

The most stressful part of the night is when Kristin leaves to get Missa, her brother. It’s too short notice to fill him in completely, but they still want him to come. It’s been too long. They’ve all been busy, and Phil has to properly thank him for being there for the boys while he’s been away.

But they return, the boys hugging their very confused uncle. 

A jet sounds overhead, and they trek out into the snow. Phil shuts the door behind them, their house dark. It’s not their home anymore, not when the Capitol still looms over them.

The jet lands just outside the gate as Cellbit had said. Phil leads the way in case anything has gone wrong, but he doesn’t need to.

Etoiles and Fit walk down the ramp, grinning and coming to help with their things. It’s odd to see them both in Twelve at the same time but… nice.

Phil doesn’t relax until the door is shut, everyone safely aboard. Everyone is here, even Tubbo, who seeks Phil out as soon as he sits down. Tommy promptly introduces himself, leaping at the chance to make a friend. Tallulah and Chayanne run off with the other kids, a couple of which Phil doesn’t recognize. 

Now that he thinks about it, there are a few people here he doesn’t know—a woman by Roier with bright blue hair and a man by Mouse with dark hair and bright green eyes, to name some. Others he can pick out based on descriptions, like Antoine’s hood that covers his face, replacing it with a hastily-drawn, rigid smile. Baghera always brings it up.

Phil settles down, Kristin on one side beside Missa and Techno on his other, everyone finally able to catch a breath. 

Even if Techno keeps an eye on all his siblings. This is his version of relaxing, nowadays.

“Everything settled?” Cellbit asks, poking his head out of the cockpit. Everyone nods, belongings all packed away and all passengers ready to leave.

Cellbit grins giddily. “Alright, then.” He disappears again, but his voice is clear when he shouts, “Onto District Thirteen!”

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.

Chapter Text

They head back to Thirteen from there.

Phil switches places with Kristin, letting her go on the jet with Techno and the victors. It’s what he has to do, so when she asks if he’s sure—if he’s okay—Phil just smiles a watery smile and says yes to both, even if one is a lie.

He doesn’t let the other kids see Wilbur, not yet. They take another jet back with the others—Bagi, Jaiden, Missa, Foolish, Antoine… it’s better that way. Safer. Phil isn’t sure if Wilbur would have that reaction to anyone else, and he’s too scared to try right now. At least until he’s stable… Techno and Kristin can be with him.

Wilbur seems fine with the other victors too, but with his mom and twin? That’s when he feels safe. And that’s all Phil needs right now—for his son to be and feel safe.

So he answers Tommy, Chayanne, and Tallulah’s questions, Missa cutting in when Phil stumbles a bit too much. Which is… often.

“So he’s okay?” Chayanne asks, hopeful.

Internally, Phil grimaces. “I think so,” he lies. Because that? That was anything but okay. But it’s hard to explain the things that happened, not to mention Phil doesn’t want to upset the kids when he doesn’t have to.

“Was he hurt?” Tallulah asks, “He was there for a while.”

“I don’t know,” Phil murmurs, “It was dark. Hard to tell. I’d have started to check, but I had to go deal with the President. I left him with Techno and the others.”

That isn’t a full lie—Wilbur wasn’t himself, and so clearly hurt it still grips Phil’s heart with terror. But beyond what he can’t say, all Phil knows is what he saw in the interviews. And he’s not inclined to share that, either.

Phil just doesn’t mention why he didn’t see Wilbur outside, or on the jet. He doesn’t mention why he left immediately, finding Kristin and hurriedly explaining that she had to go see the boys.

“I know we’re all excited,” Missa says, “But maybe we should stop with the questions? We’ll be back in Thirteen soon. Then we can all see Wilbur ourselves.”

Phil clenches his jaw, but smiles. Screams rattle his skull, calls for a name Phil will never hear Wilbur say again. To him, Phil’s the Angel, now.

“You are exactly what the arena made you.”

Even in his own son’s fearful eyes. Phil wonders how much longer it will take for the rest of those he loves to see him as who he is—a ruthless killer, only still alive because he became something other than human. Only because he killed.

Will they realize, or will Phil stop pretending?

The kids agree, chatting amongst themselves and Missa about lighter topics. A smile crosses Tallulah’s face, wide and true. It burns like the sun. It’s a sight Phil hasn’t seen in a long time, and though it feels right, it still feels odd. In his staring, Phil is surprised he doesn’t go blind.

By the time they’re back in Thirteen, the kids are bouncing off the walls with energy. They don’t follow the other children, instead trailing after Missa like ducklings, dragging Phil along with them.

His stomach twists and flips. He isn’t sure how he can tell them he can’t see Wilbur. As much as Phil wants to, as much as he’d love to reassure his son it’s okay… he can’t. Because his love and care would only hurt him more.

Phil isn’t selfish enough to hurt his son.

Chayanne keeps tugging him down the corridor. Phil recognizes the main halls changing to the medical wing, the dread haunting him with each step.

Faintly, he hears voices. They’re soft, gentle. Missa stops beside a door, smiling as he looks inside, waving through the window.

“I’ll ask Wilbur if he’s up to so many visitors at once,” Missa says, “He might be tired. Overwhelmed.”

“I’ll keep them at bay,” Tommy chuckles, sticking an arm out in front of Tallulah. She huffs, swatting at it persistently.

Missa ducks in, out of sight. Tallulah bickers with Tommy. Chayanne squeezes Phil’s hand before letting go. They wait, Tommy and Tallulah fighting to get closest to the door.

Then Missa comes out, nodding.

Tommy laughs, letting Tallulah rush forward, that same smile plastered on her face.

A scream pierces the air.

It’s familiar, one with a permanent place in Phil’s mind. It locks the others in place. Not Phil. He spurs into action like he’s back in the games, ever vigilant.

For a moment, he sees Wilbur’s terrified face, sees him sitting straight up on the bed, backing himself into a corner as Techno tries to calm him. But that’s all he sees before he picks Tallulah up, carrying her away.

“Turn your aids off,” Phil mutters, “Please, it’ll help.”

She acquiesces with shaky hands, some of the tensions easing. Phil doesn’t stop to answer questions. He keeps jogging until they’re in a safe, quiet room.

Phil sets Tallulah down, and she heads over to a chair, plopping herself in it. Carefully, she reaches up and adjusts her hearing aids.

“Talk,” she prompts, not unkindly.

“I’m sorry,” Phil blurts, “Tallulah, I’m so, so sorry.”

“What’s wrong with him?” She asks, voice wobbling, “Phil, he was fine, and then he looked over and he was—”

“Scared,” Phil says numbly, sitting on the floor, “Yeah. I know.”

She looks at him, eyes burning with tears, the smile long gone. “Is that… why you came back with us? Why you didn’t stay with him? Is he afraid of you too?”

Phil swallows, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, Tallulah, he's… he's scared of me too.”

“Why?” Tallulah chokes out, “What did they do to him? Why us?”

She’s right. Wilbur is fine with Techno. And Kristin. Missa, apparently, and all the victors barring Phil and Tallulah. Maybe that’s why.

“It’s looking like it’s just us,” Phil murmurs, “I’d imagine that’s for a reason. We were with him before the games, and during them. Whether intentional or not, that’s probably why. The Capitol might have done something, or… or maybe it’s just how his mind is coping with the games. We can’t know for sure.”

Tallulah nods, sniffling as the tears pour down her face. The sobs come quick, broken and strong. Phil sucks in a breath, rising and taking the seat beside her. He reaches out a hand.

“Hey, hey, hey. Tallulah, I—” Phil’s cut off as Tallulah tackles him into a hug, sobbing into his shoulder. He returns it without hesitation. “I know. I know. It hurts, because you want to be there, but for him to get better you can’t. I just… never thought it’d happen to you, too.”

She doesn’t reply. There’s no need to. What could she possibly say to make anything better? Nothing. All Tallulah can do is cry because Phil can’t, the well long ago running dry.

All that’s left to do is keep together and try to survive.

~ ~ ~

“Hey Phil,” Cellbit says, poking his head in the room.

Phil jolts, not expecting him to be there, but then again, he’s just helping out with the garden while Tallulah copes and everyone else is able to visit Wilbur. So long as Wilbur knows he’s safe, knows he’s loved, he doesn’t mind.

“What’s up?” Phil asks, standing.

“Could you come with me real quick?” He asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel he insists on carrying like it’s part of him, “Pac has something I think you’d want to hear.”

Phil pushes himself to his feet, taking off his gloves. “Sure. It’s no problem.”

Cellbit smiles, but there’s an air about him buzzing with nervous energy. It’s as if he didn’t have to escort Phil, he’d be running down the hall at top speed.

Instead, they head down at an average pace.

“Just to catch you up to speed,” Cellbit begins, “Fit and Etoiles found some vials in the room you found Wilbur in. They grabbed a bunch just in case they were all different.”

Vials..? Phil’s mind flashes back to the interviews, the minuscule dots only someone searching could have seen.

These must be what they were injecting him with, whether it be simple painkillers while he was healing from the explosions or anything else.

“I take it you’ve found something?” Phil asks.

“Pac can explain it better than I could,” Cellbit says, a little apologetic, “He’s the one with the data. He analyzed it all himself with some leftover tech from whoever was here before.”

“Well, that’s amazing,” Phil replies, “I’ll have to thank him.”

They continue on in a comfortable silence. But Phil’s mind races. Each possibility is more frightening than the last. In hindsight, he doubts it was for the original injuries. Why would they still have some lying around at the ready?

It’s simple—they wouldn’t. Once something serves its purpose in the Capitol, they discard it.

Phil should know.

Cellbit leads him to a laboratory by the usual technology center. Pac is the only one there, a lab coat covering his usual blue button up. He’s hunched over a computer, chin propped up in his hand, deep in thought.

“Pac, I brought Phil,” Cellbit announces, almost gravely. Pac jolts, dark hair a mess, but he smiles in a greeting.

“Hello Phil!” He says, leaning comfortably in his chair, “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better. You?” Phil answers.

“Alright,” Pac responds, “I’m sure Cell’s told you about the vials?”

“He did. He mentioned you found out what they were?”

Pac nods, turning the computer screen and beckoning Phil closer. “They’re all the same. Different potencies, but every single one has trackerjacker venom.”

Phil’s heart skips a beat, his arm aching with a phantom pain he hadn’t even thought about in many years.

“Jacker venom?” He breathes.

“They call it hijacking,” Cellbit says, “Roier and I found some papers on it in the President’s office. Weren’t really sure why, at the time.”

“Essentially, the venom—”

“Makes you scared,” Phil cuts Pac off, “And it hurts. Enough stings could kill you. You’re telling me they— that was what they were injecting him with?”

How is Wilbur alive? They don’t even know how long the Capitol had been doing that for, but in Phil’s games, people died from a few stings. It’s approaching a year since the last games. A year.

The damage that can happen when there’s nobody there to help…

“It was diluted and mixed with some other things to dull the lethal aspect, but… yeah. They were,” Pac says.

“Is… is there a way to reverse it?” Phil asks. He can deal with everything else later… if he’s able to be in the same room as his own son.

“We don’t know yet,” Pac reports.

“But now we know what’s happening,” Cellbit says.

“Do we?” Phil asks, “Because all that confirms is that they hurt him. So much. And we don’t even know how that would affect someone in such a way we’d be able to undo it. We know they injected him, but how is he afraid of me? Of Tallulah?”

“We do, though,” Cellbit says, “Or we can at least infer.”

That piques Phil’s interest, soothing his heart a bit. “How so?”

“We found footage of all the prior games,” Cellbit explains, “Now obviously, they haven’t been viewed in a while. Obviously, all but last year’s would have dust. But that wasn’t the case.”

“Really?”

“Phil, your recording was used recently,” Cellbit says.

He feels his blood freeze in his veins, his jaw hanging open. His games? They happened almost nineteen years ago now. It was a quell, yes, but there isn’t a reason for it to be viewed again.

Nobody should see them. It feels wrong.

“What… what does that mean?” Phil asks, even if it’s stupid. His mind isn’t quite working at the moment.

“Wilbur has no logical reason to be scared of you and Tallulah,” Cellbit says, “It doesn’t make sense. But fear is powerful, Phil. If they could tie that fear from the jacker venom to you two, it would stick.”

“And the President had the footage of us,” Phil breathes, “From our games. At our worst, our most terrifying and brutal.”

Cellbit nods. “Yeah. He did.”

“It makes sense, I suppose,” Phil laughs bitterly, “He’s—he’s so sure I’m going to hurt him, kill him. If he saw that game, Cellbit? I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Hey. We all did what we had to, Phil,” Cellbit says, “And remember that Wilbur never thought of you like that. They made him.”

Faintly, Phil does remember the screams from the jabberjays. Wilbur had called for him. He’d wanted Phil to come and be there, to save him.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe Phil isn’t some monster, even with the President’s words in his head and the terror in his son’s eyes. 

“So there’s no way to fix it?” He asks, “But if they brought this about, there has to be a way to change it back, right?”

“Like I said, I haven’t found a way yet,” Pac says, “I’m looking, though.”

“In the meantime… the answer might just be time,” Cellbit sighs, “Now that he won’t have anyone reinforcing that fear of you and Tallulah, maybe he can undo it himself.”

“That could take ages,” Phil mumbles, “I don’t… he deserves to be unafraid as soon as possible. I can’t just sit around and feel like I’m not doing anything for him.”

“You don’t have to do nothing,” Cellbit says, “Maybe keeping your distance is good for now, but you can always do things for him. Make something, like a craft or meal, and have someone else give it to him.”

“He’ll probably think I’m trying to poison him,” Phil huffs, “Or something like that.”

Cellbit laughs shortly. “Maybe. But still, it might work. I don’t know, maybe Kristin or someone will have a better idea. I haven’t spoken to Wilbur at all yet.”

It’s true someone else might have a better idea, someone who could ask Wilbur for an answer directly.

Phil leaves the room with a declaration of gratitude, a heavy heart, and the itch in his mind that won’t leave him—a persistent memory he’d rather let die.

~ ~ ~

Phil traverses the forest, the terrain rocky and hard to stay stable on. Of course there are mountains in these parts. Just his luck.

But maybe, just maybe, it will work to his advantage.

He hears voices and Phil stops, hand drifting to one of his knives. Pulling it out, he holds it at the ready to throw.

Two boys walk a distance away, one with bright blonde hair and the other so platinum it almost appears white. They talk amongst each other… rather loudly.

An alliance. That makes Phil’s life a hell of a lot more difficult, but… maybe he can let them be.

They don’t see him. The power is all in Phil’s hands.

Though… they’re laughing. The lighter-haired boy has a mask covering his neck and the lower half of his face, but his companion is beaming. Their conversation is light, jovial.

Phil lowers his arm.

He’s not a complete monster.

So he moves on. He’s sure to find some other tribute to kill elsewhere.

He hates how ready he is to kill.

~ ~ ~

Chayanne plops down beside Phil in the cafeteria, a displeased look on his face. Tallulah startles, nearly dropping her muffin. 

“What’s wrong, Chay?” She asks, tearing off a bit of the muffin top.

“Nothing,” he hums, frown still prominent. It’s a clear lie.

“Mate, nobody buys that for a second,” Phil tells him, “Something happened. What is it?”

“Wil can’t even look at me,” Chayanne mumbles after a while, resting his chin between his arms on the table, “Wasn’t gonna say. It’s not the worst that could happen.”

Phil and Tallulah share a look. The girl looks devastated, reaching out to rest a hand on Chayanne’s arm. Like Chayanne said—it’s not the same. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.

Just… Phil isn’t sure why. The President wouldn’t have footage of Chayanne, would he? Even if he did, it wouldn’t be anything gruesome or scary. And then why not anyone else? Nothing about this makes sense.

“I’m sorry, Chay,” Tallulah mutters, “You’re always welcome to stay with us.”

“Yeah,” Chayanne breathes, “That’s good.”

Phil wracks his brain for… anything that can help this make sense. Why would Wilbur be unnerved by Chayanne? He’s terrified of Phil and Tallulah, sure, but why Chayanne? His youngest brother?

Surely there’s a common thread between Phil, Tallulah, and Chayanne. He and Phil look alike. Chayanne and Tallulah are friends. That’s… about it. Maybe Phil shares some personality quirks, but him and Tallulah? They couldn’t be more different, in Phil’s opinion.

What would Wilbur think?

He was always so adamant to protect Tallulah, partially because Chayanne asked, but Phil knows he would have anyway. She’s just a kid, like Chayanne. And…

“Well, it’s because it’s the truth. He sees Chayanne in you, I think.”

Phil had said that, hadn’t he? That night he and Tallulah couldn’t sleep after the interviews. He’d called Wilbur Tallulah’s brother and…

Gods, it’s true.

The banter, the devotion, the care, the teasing… Tallulah is Wilbur’s little sister through and through. He sees Chayanne in her, and now that he’s afraid of her… that passed on to Chayanne.

“Dad,” Chayanne mutters, “Do you think he’s mad at me?”

Phil blinks. “Why would he ever be mad at you?”

Chayanne looks down at the table. “Because I… y’know, what we talked about the other week? Because of what I asked him to promise?”

“Mate…”

“I just… he got hurt because of it,” Chayanne says, “Because of me. He’d be right to hate me.”

“No, I don’t think it’s that,” Phil replies, “And I think the only person who blames you for anything is yourself. Wil is just… in a tough place right now. He’s scared, but he’ll be okay in time.”

“He’s fine with everyone else,” Chayanne points out.

“But he’s not terrified of you,” Tallulah says bluntly, “So it’s a little different. Nothing against you.”

“Tallulah’s right,” Phil mutters. He sighs, raising his voice to a normal volume. “Look, I… won’t go into detail, but what they did made him afraid of me and Tallulah. And Wilbur… well, Tallulah reminds him of you, Chayanne. I can only assume that bled into his mind.”

Chayanne glances up at him. “How do we make him unafraid?”

“I’ve talked with Pac and Cellbit,” Phil says, “We don’t know. Might just have to wait it out.”

“But he will get better?” Tallulah asks, “Right?”

Phil can’t answer definitively. All he can do is hope. “I won’t stop until he does.”

“Even if it takes forever?” Chayanne asks.

“Especially then,” Phil says softly, “I haven’t given up on any of you kids, and I’m not stopping now.”

He never will. Even if it leads him to his grave.

~ ~ ~

“You have… gifts,” Phil repeats, “For Tallulah?”

Etoiles grins. “Yes! Is that so hard to believe, Phil?”

“When your gifts are either fights or weapons?” Phil asks, “Yes. And it’s mildly concerning.”

Etoiles sets a hand on his chest, offended. But he leads Phil to that same room he’d stored the scythe, so he’s not helping his case. “This wasn’t even my idea! It was Pomme’s.”

Phil laughs. “She’s exactly like you! And Baghera! That doesn’t help!”

“The others helped raise her too, before they were moved,” Etoiles argues, shouldering his way into the room, “But Antoine is still here! He balances her out.”

“Uh huh,” Phil laughs, “So why are we in your weapon’s closet?”

“Because it’s my comfort place,” Etoiles replies, not even missing a beat. He looks around purposefully. “Would you deprive a man of his comfort, Phil?”

He chokes on a laugh. “Mate—”

Etoiles exclaims in triumph. He picks up a box, smiling. “Here it is. Do you know where Tallulah is?”

“Probably her room,” Phil says, “She’s not been very social lately. Not being able to see Wil is taking its toll on her, I think.”

“Exactly why she needs a present,” Etoiles says, “Let’s go and grab Pomme and head over.”

Phil doesn’t argue, just chuckling as he follows his friend from the room. He doesn’t know if arming an almost thirteen-year-old is the best idea, considering all that’s happened with her, all she’s been through.

But maybe that’s precisely why she’ll love that. Maybe it will make her feel safe.

Etoiles heads down the hall, the contents of the box rattling with each step. They take a turn into the tech room where Richarlyson, Dapper, and Pomme are bothering Pierre and Mike.

“Papa Etoiles!” Pomme exclaims, beaming. She abandons Pierre’s side, leaving him to his work, and gasps upon seeing the box. “Are we giving Lulah her present?”

“We are,” Etoiles says, “Would you like to join us, Pomme?”

“I would!” She replies. She turns on her heel, facing a curious Richarlyson and Dapper. “I’ll be back soon!”

“A present?” Richas asks.

“What is it?” Dapper tacks on, poking out from behind the shorter boy.

“You’ll see later,” Pomme says, “No seeing it before Tallulah—it’s her gift, after all!”

Richas frowns, huffing, but Mike swoops in, asking for his help on his current project for the kids—some kind of enhancer for hide and seek, Phil thinks.

But it’s enough to entertain Richarlyson and Dapper while he, Etoiles, and Pomme take their leave. Perfect timing.

“Your dad says this was your idea,” Phil says, “Is that true?”

Pomme nods. “Tallulah hasn’t been herself lately,” she explains, “And… we may not be able to help with that, but we can help in other ways.”

“Really?”

She nods again, humming. “I… Papa and Maman were in the games. They tell me it’s hard. That it never truly leaves you, and that you’re scared for a long time. I thought she could use some protection to make her feel more safe.”

Phil smiles. Every word was true, yes. Tallulah has made her way to Phil and Kristin countless times with nightmares and worries. She’s been afraid in her own room. But the fact that Pomme was thinking of how she could possibly ease that is… sweet.

“I’m sure she’ll love it, Pomme. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They arrive at Tallulah’s room. Phil knocks, thankful to hear a quick ‘come in’ when he does. He sticks his head in before entering.

“Hey, Tallulah,” Phil says. The girl is sitting on her bed, bored, but otherwise okay. “I brought some guests.”

“Really?”

Etoiles and Pomme filter in, the younger immediately running to Tallulah’s side. Tallulah offers her a spot beside her on the bed, and together, the two sit.

“We brought you a present,” Pomme says, smiling. It cracks the streaks of blue and red paint that found their way to her cheeks.

“For me?” Tallulah asks.

“Of course for you,” Pomme laughs, “Who else?”

Tallulah huffs a laugh. Etoiles steps forward with a smile, holding the box out to her. “I always say the strongest weapon is a smile, but that can be hard sometimes. So hopefully these will help.”

She takes the box, removing the lid and peering in. From it, Tallulah takes out a dagger with a pale gold blade. It’s small. The hilt is a brighter gold, shimmering in the light and twisting like vines or leaves. At the opposite end of the blade, a pink rose unfurls, delicate and yet unwavering.

“It’s beautiful,” Tallulah says quietly, engrossed by the dagger.

“Papa Etoiles is very good at making weapons,” Pomme says, beaming with pride, “The very best.”

“But what would I be without my favorite designer?” Etoiles smirks, “These are all your creations too.”

Phil furrows his brow. “All?”

“Yeah, there’s… some more,” Tallulah says, setting the dagger aside carefully. She rifles through the box and pulls out some flat sheets of metal, white and black. They’re shaped like butterflies, funnily enough, with holes on the edges that look like dots on their patterned wings.

“Throwing stars,” Etoiles says, “Or butterflies, I guess. They still work the same—just aim and throw. It’ll take some practice, but you will strike true in no time.”

Phil smiles but huffs a laugh. “What’s next? A full suit of armor?”

“You never know, Phil,” Etoiles smirks, “I could get bored one day. Imagine that!”

Tallulah snorts, setting the gifts back in the box. “Thank you both. These are amazing, I… I love them a lot.”

Phil and Etoiles smile in tandem. There’s actual joy lining her face, her eyes crinkling a bit as she grins down at the contents of the box.

“Lulah,” Pomme says, “Wanna go to the training room? We could practice! I can show you cool tricks.”

Tallulah smiles and nods. “I’d love that.”

Pomme grabs her hand and the two dart out of the room excitedly, quietly talking with enthusiasm.

“One of us should probably supervise them,” Phil laughs, “Just to make sure they don’t lose any fingers.”

“Why not both?” Etoiles asks, “The more the merrier.”

Phil shrugs. “I… should probably check in about Wil. I want to see how he’s doing. For me, but also for Tallulah and Chayanne. They’ll want to know.”

Etoiles hums, nodding. “I’ll watch them both, then. Good luck, Phil.”

“Thanks, mate,” he says back. They leave the room together but part separate ways. Phil will need all the luck he can get. 

~ ~ ~

After that, Phil tries to deduce his best bet. Really, anyone could help… Missa, Kristin, Techno, Tommy. Anyone who’s spent time with Wilbur. Anyone who can. 

The problem is that Techno won’t want to leave his twin’s side, not when he’s as protective as he is and Wilbur has practically begged him to stay. Kristin will remain at his side as well, both as his mother and doctor. She’ll be trying to help him recover. Missa will be in and out. He’s trying to keep the entire family together, alternating between the medical wing and Chayanne.

Honestly, Phil’s best bet will be Tommy. The teen is rather clingy toward his brothers, especially the older ones. It’s been like that since he was little. But Phil knows he’s sensitive.

It would hurt to constantly be around Wilbur, seeing him afraid and in constant pain.

He’d be in the garden. That’s his happy place, his calm. If Tommy were ever to be stressed or in need of relief, that’s where he’d be.

So Phil makes his way over, occasionally stopping to chat with anyone he passes. When he ultimately does make it to the greenhouse, he’s not surprised to find it inhabited, a familiar head of blonde curls facing away from him.

Tommy sits crisscross on the floor, muttering to a bush of daisies and observing their petals. Phil approaches quietly, not wanting to scare him. 

“Hey, mate,” Phil says. Tommy stiffens a bit, turning his head around, but he immediately relaxes.

“Hey Dad,” he replies as Phil sits beside him, “What brings you here?”

“Same as you, I’d think,” Phil mutters, “Some peace. Some time. Maybe someone to talk to.”

Tommy huffs. “Let me know when you find all that. Sounds nice.”

“How is he?” Phil asks, “Wil. You’re upset, and if there’s anything that could upset you at the moment, it’s him.”

“He’s…” Tommy trails off, huffing, “Alright, I guess.”

“But not good?”

Tommy shakes his head. “No. I… don’t think he is. It—it bothers me that he won’t let you or Tallulah visit. And I get it, I do, but… it’s not right.”

“We have to make sacrifices for him to get better,” Phil says, “We don’t mind if it means he can heal. Honestly.”

“I don’t know if he is,” Tommy mumbles, “Doesn’t feel like it, anyway.”

Phil’s brow furrows. “How so?”

“I mean, he seems fine, don’t get me wrong,” Tommy says, “It’s just… something is off. He doesn’t talk as easily as he used to. Doesn’t joke. It’s like a part of him is always on edge, still afraid, still waiting for the other foot to fall. He’s just… not really himself.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Phil surmises quietly, “You don’t really want to be around him.”

Tommy sputters, almost defensive. “What? No, that’s—no! I—I just…”

“Hey,” Phil says, “It’s okay. It’s not fair to you to be in there all the time, Tommy. It’s sad in there. Wilbur isn’t himself, you’re right about that, and he does need people, but that doesn’t have to be you. He’s got Techno and your mom looking after him constantly. You don’t have to be doing the same.”

“I feel like I should, though.”

“You’re not obligated to do anything, mate,” Phil says, wrapping an arm around the other’s shoulder, “If I could go in there, I’d hate it. I’d be happy Wil’s there, but if he’s not quite himself like you say? It would just be suffocating. I’d want to get out of there just like you. So don’t feel bad or guilty.”

Tommy sighs heavily, letting a thousand worries slip out with the breath. But there’s still vast amounts that linger. “I just… I want him to be just a bit better. So bad. I want him to—to smile at us, to feel happy, not relieved. I don’t want him assuming the worst. I don’t want him to be confined to a room or a bed while Mom makes sure he won’t start screaming or dying. I just… I want him to get better. I wish it were months in the future, I…” He sucks in a breath, letting it out shakily as the tears well in his eyes. “I can’t stand being in that room with him and I hate myself for it.”

Phil feels the same way, just in a different circumstance. He’s almost… relieved that he’s barred from being there by Wilbur’s fear. If he weren’t, he’d be a witness to every moment, especially the bad ones. He’s grateful, in a sense, even though it hurts, and immediately kicks himself for ever thinking that in the first place.

“I know. I know, Tommy, but don’t hate yourself,” Phil whispers, “You know that Wilbur absolutely adores you. He’d hate that you were making yourself suffer for his sake. And, when he gets better, he’ll feel so bad you felt the need to do that for him.”

Tommy hums, leaning his head on Phil’s shoulder. “I don’t know anymore, Dad,” he whispers, “I just want it to be a year ago, before the games. Is that too much to ask?”

Yes. No matter how people wish and pray, time will never bend to their whims. The hard times drag on, the happy pass in a flash, and when you look back in rose-tinted glasses, you find you’re not the person in those memories and never will be again.

It’s impossible to go back. It’s foolish to wish it so.

“No,” Phil says, despite it all, because people seem to always choose the hardest paths, “No, I think that’s perfectly reasonable. The world just doesn’t work like that, though.”

“I know,” Tommy breathes, “I wish it did.”

“Me too, mate… me too.”

They sit there for a while, the daisies bright and blossoming. Phil has learned a few important things, though—Wilbur is stable, if not better. Time may genuinely be the answer to their problems. For now, though, there’s nothing Phil can do except stand idly by and hope.

That… hasn’t really worked before.

~ ~ ~

“My bets are Charlie making dark jokes, Quackity sitting broodingly in the corner, Cellbit leading the discussion, and Roier immediately agreeing with everything he says,” Fit lists off, “Oh, and maybe Bagi and Cellbit will argue. Baghera may want to kill someone too…”

Phil scoffs. “Honestly, that sounds pretty standard, “ he says, “Though you forgot Etoiles hovering around everyone like a bodyguard.”

They walk down the hall toward the main meeting room, metal floors painted green and dotted with flowers. The adults are gathering to decide… the entire future, really. What do they do now? The President is gone, the people have taken over the Capitol… the nation needs guidance of some sort.

And they, the leaders of the rebellion—or Bolas, he supposes—are called upon to figure that out. Each District trusts their victors, the people trust the group as a whole… and they trust each other, most of all. That will reflect in their decisions and, hopefully, their respective Districts.

The fate of the nation and Districts falls on their shoulders. If they fail, the entire nation will fall again.

Fit laughs. “Yeah, yeah, you got me there, Phil. Etoiles is totally gonna do that, but only so he doesn’t have to discuss logistics.”

“Hey, you never know,” Phil shoots back, “He might. Just so he knows it’ll be fair.”

“Maybe there’ll be a load of surprises,” Fit suggests, “This is new territory. We’ve never done this before. Who knows what everyone will do?”

“All we can do is find out,” Phil says, opening the door.

Everyone else is already in there, mingling and talking among themselves. Mariana, Charlie, Baghera, and Roier banter animatedly together. Phil thinks he hears Baghera ask what they’d do if they woke up as a tree.

This can only go smoothly.

Etoiles is unseated, hovering around like a hummingbird. Foolish, Mouse, and Tina are deep in conversation. Carre and Quackity talk quietly.

Cellbit waves them over. “Glad you two could finally make it.”

“Blame Fit,” Phil laughs, “He took forever to get ready.” Fit punches his arm but finds a seat across from Pac.

Which leaves Phil at the end. Lovely.

He sits, letting Cellbit call the group to attention. “Alright. We all know why we’re here, so let’s get started. First things first—what to do about the government.”

“We could do a group,” Bagi suggests, “Some kind of board that would facilitate discussions, maybe?”

“I like that,” Roier says, “The problem before was that the Capitol ran everything, no? Get rid of one person in charge, and that problem?” He makes a poof noise, an accompanying motion with his hands. “It’d just go away.”

“And we’d have representation from every District,” Mouse adds, “One or two people at first, maybe? That’d be nice.”

“That could work,” Phil mutters, “I mean, in a way, it’s what we’re doing now. A bunch of people from different Districts coming together to make important decisions… it’d be cool to see that continue.”

“What about the Capitol?” Baghera asks, “Would they get a say? Would we wait to let them have a place, or make their votes worth less?”

The table quiets.

The Capitol is… a sensitive topic. Logically, they know it wasn’t the people’s decision making spearheading the atrocities. It was their excitement. They didn’t order the blood to be spilled, but… in a way, they did. They’re innocent but just as guilty.

Maybe not guilty. Maybe complicit is the right word. It still doesn’t make it better.

“If we do that, it goes against exactly what we’re trying to do, though,” Fit says, “Making it fair.”

“They haven’t exactly been fair to any of us,” Mouse says.

“I wouldn’t call killing twenty-three kids a year fair,” Charlie huffs, “Or merciful, for that matter.”

“Aren’t we obligated to be a little better than them, though?” Cellbit asks, “Just a bit. We won’t replace one dictator with another.”

“They can’t just go unpunished, though,” Quackity argues, dark eyes dragging across the table, “The Capitol may not be fully evil, but the institution they followed was. They loved the games. The Federation fed into that. Why should they all get off without even a warning?”

“What if we compromise,” Bagi suggests, “We start out with a council of the Districts. For its crimes, the Capitol and its citizens won’t be allowed to participate for a period of time.”

It’s a good thought. But Phil worries that some around the table are too hurt, too angry. Quackity, for example—he’s just a year older than Wilbur and Techno. But in two years, the Capitol ruined his life.

He has every right to be mad. But anger doesn’t create stable foundations for the future. Instead, it rattles the entire structure, begging for it to topple.

“I think that’s fair enough,” Phil says, “If they’re  good, they get a say. We don’t want to be a reverse Capitol. Punish them a bit by not letting them have a say in the beginning.”

“All the precedents will be set by District representatives,” Etoiles says, “Those will be hard to go against, even if not written into law.”

Thankfully, everyone agrees to that. They come up with an election process—two from each District, everyone gets a single vote worth as much as anyone else. They’ll have to pick trusted individuals to start off with… they can’t afford to let the wrong people have power. And things have to get going now, so it will be difficult to hold an election to start.

They discuss more, delving a bit into structures, checks for the system, and schedules. It’s boring, mundane goings that Phil lets others take the reins for. These talks are much better suited to Cellbit, Bagi, Baghera, or Etoiles… Not Phil. He’s here to mediate.

“What about us?” Foolish asks.

The question drags Phil back into the discussion. It’s personal, and truthfully, Phil is wondering the same. This is a period of unknowns. It’s terrifying.

Deep down, like a child woken from a nightmare, Phil just wants someone to tell him it will be okay.

“What do you mean?” Fit replies, intrigue on his face.

“Well, I mean, like… what are we gonna do?” Foolish repeats, “All this time, we’ve been separated into Districts. But, like… think about it—Felps, Pac, and Mike are from Eleven, but they have homes elsewhere. What do they do? Where do they go? Will we not be able to travel? ‘Cause I want to find Vegetta. Leo misses her brother.”

“That’s a good question,” Baghera adds, “Will we move to the Capitol or stay where we’ve been? Is that even a good idea?”

“We shouldn’t leave all the Capitol citizens where they are,” Fit suggests, “It’s not safe.”

“Why not?” Pac asks, “It’s the Peacekeepers who are dangerous, not the people.”

“But people have power.”

“And if they are unhappy enough, they may decide to use it,” Etoiles finishes, “Maybe we spread them out across the Districts.”

“Then who will live in the Capitol?” Mouse asks, “Or will it just be a ghost town with no people?”

“We could just let a ton of people live there, no?” Roier cuts in, “From every District, One to Twelve. Volunteers, of course, but I think it’d help out a lot of people.”

“I like that idea,” Cellbit smiles, “Move some of the more wealthy or powerful people out of the center and into other Districts just in case. Maybe victors can get priority? It’s a big city.”

“We already have nice houses,” Bagi points out, “I don’t think we’d need anything more.”

“If some of us are on the council, we’ll be living there anyway,” Cellbit points out, “But you have a point. We could have a certain number of each—an even number of victors and their families and normal citizens from each District?”

“I think that’s good,” Phil cedes when Cellbit looks across the table at him for approval, “Though travel between Districts should be slowly integrated so it’s not overwhelming. Some sort of pass, maybe?”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want everyone constantly on the move,” Quackity adds, “That would just be bad. Complete chaos.”

“I think we can all agree to let Foolish go and look for Vegetta, though,” Mouse says, and everyone just nods. 

“I’d like to track down Kameto, too, if that’s alright,” Antoine speaks up, “Pomme has been missing him a lot lately. I think everyone from Two has.”

“We can do that too,” Cellbit nods, “Whoever we need to find, whatever we need to do, we can make it happen.”

It’s optimistic, and while Phil can say with confidence that this has all-in-all gone well… it’s wishful thinking to say you can make anything happen. The dead can’t walk the earth with air in their lungs. The lost may not be able to be found.

Family might not be able to be restored. Wilbur might be scared of Phil for life.

And that terrifies him.

But the truth of the future remains to be seen.

~ ~ ~

Once all of the logistics are solved, there’s nothing left to do in Thirteen except leave.

“We’re gonna go back to Twelve,” Phil tells Etoiles the day before they move out. Some are returning home as well, others going to help out in the Capitol. Phil is not one of those people. “It’s time I stop being a figurehead and go back to being a father again.”

“People need you,” Etoiles replies.

“My kids need me—”

“Who did you think I meant?” He shoots back with a grin, “Phil, your family are the ones who need you most. We can handle the rest.”

So when the time comes, Phil says his goodbyes that seem to last a lifetime. Tallulah and Chayanne are like shadows following him every step of the way. They’re sad to leave the other kids and everyone they’ve met, but… excited to go home. For this to be over.

Phil is too.

By the time they’re at the planes, Wilbur is already on one. Phil doesn’t know what he’s looking like, but Kristin says he’s doing well enough. Though, she seems strained. Spread too thin. All their lives, she’s been happy to be the one people go to with wounds, and she’d greet them with remedies.

Though Phil supposes some wounds are too great, too draining for everyone involved, caregiver included.

Techno has dark bags beneath his eyes, circles of weariness weighing down to his skin. Phil wonders if he’s slept.

Tommy isn’t too good either. The days seem to suck the life out of him, but even still, he plasters on a smile.

Hopefully being home will restore a little life to them all. Hopefully it will help Wilbur heal a bit faster. That’s all Phil can hope for.

Even if they’re taking separate jets home.

It’s… for the best. Wilbur will have a safe flight without fear, and Phil and the little ones won’t be burdened by guilt. Tallulah already had a nasty nightmare just last night. She doesn’t have to say that it was about the arena, about Wilbur… her eyes say enough.

Sitting in the pilot’s seat, Chayanne stubbornly in the one beside him, Phil feels a sort of finality. Hopefully Twelve will still be the home he knows. Knew. He’s not sure which.

It feels like he blinks, and in that time, he goes from rolling out of the bunker to touching down into the grass of Twelve right by Victor’s Village. 

As soon as Phil unbuckles, so do Chayanne and Tallulah, the older chattering excitedly as he drags Tallulah from the metal ship. Phil chuckles to himself and follows.

The air is warm, a nice breeze coasting through. Spring is coming soon. It’s a nice day.

So while Chayanne brings Tallulah over to the fountain, Phil tries to delay the conversation as much as possible. But it’s a necessary one. 

He walks over, Chayanne patting at his open side. Phil sits and smiles.

“Good to be home?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Chayanne says, “I missed it more than I thought.”

“Tallulah? What about you?”

The girl just shrugs. “I dunno. It’s nice. It’s home. But… it doesn’t feel right at all.”

She’s right. There’s a looming shadow over the clearing like a dark cloud hanging high above their heads, waiting to storm. How can anywhere truly be home while their family can’t even be whole?

It’s impossible. A contradiction. So Phil nods, schooling his breath. “Yeah. Yeah, it does feel like that, doesn’t it?”

Chayanne’s disposition sours a bit. “I guess a little…”

“And it might not be right for a while,” Phil confesses, “Tallulah, I’ve been thinking, and… I think we should stay in your house until Wilbur’s better.”

Chayanne almost protests, but… Tallulah smiles. Phil never expected that. It’s small, but there, and he can’t reconcile what it’s doing there.

“I’ve been thinking that too,” Tallulah says quietly, “I was just gonna go myself, but it’d be nice with company.”

“Then I’m coming too!” Chayanne exclaims, “Wil’s different around me too. You guys need someone to keep you company.”

“If you want to, Chayanne, I can bring it up to Mom,” Phil relents, pulling his boy close, “Whatever makes you feel better. I want you to be comfortable.”

“I do want to,” the boy insists, pulling away and sitting up a bit straighter, a bit taller. He hasn’t hit his growth spurt just yet, so he doesn’t tower over Phil like the others. But Chayanne is still grown all the same. 

“Then we’ll take a small vacation,” Phil says, “We’ll be just across the way. It’ll be like we’re still home. They can visit whenever, we can come and go as we please… it will all be just fine, you two.”

“And we can watch from afar,” Tallulah says, craning her neck to look at her house. There’s a certain contempt in her eyes, a final resignation that makes her look older than she is. “Until he’s all better again.”

Phil nods, swallowing down the grief. “Yeah. Yeah, we can.”

~ ~ ~

Tommy practically spends half his time in each house.

He’ll come to entertain the little ones, especially while Phil is on call with the other victors. It’s tough work setting up a council, but at least they can call, now. They couldn’t do that before.

Or… they could. Just not freely. Every phone was bugged, every conversation monitored for any trace of dissent— especially among the victors.

Not that Phil would have been talking about overthrowing the government, of course. It just doesn’t feel right to know your private conversations are being listened into. And, in the long run, it was better not to let the Federation know your darkest secrets.

The other half of the time, Tommy is inside the main house or running errands for them. Worry has him practically glued to Wilbur’s side, so even when he’s home, he’s not outside.

Kristin and Techno take turns visiting, occasionally. It’s been a few times now that Kristin has just… fallen asleep at his side on the couch. Or that Techno has let the damn burst—all his worries and fears about Wilbur’s nightmares, about him never getting better… it’s a lot, and time has made the strong fearful. 

“I just want him to be himself again,” Techno mutters late one night when he came over, sleepless, “And Mom says he is, that he’s gettin’ there, but I don’t see what she sees.”

“And what is it that you see?”

Techno is eerily silent for a few moments, face stuck in deep contemplation. “I see him always looking over his shoulder. I saw him staring wide-eyed at old pictures before I hid them. I see him terrified in the night by nightmares I can’t chase away because he’s petrified of the only ones he wants to call for.”

Phil pauses, breath caught in his throat. “What… what do you mean by that?”

“It’s no secret his nightmares are from the arena,” Techno says, “Or from after. So whenever he has them, it’s like—it’s like he wants to call for someone, but the name dies on his tongue. You and Tallulah would understand. You’d help, but he’s still scared.”

“Isn’t that good?” Phil dares to say, “Wouldn’t he not even want to call for us? To say our names? He—he called me the Angel, Tech, and that was only after you asked him to say who.”

Techno frowns, jaw clenched and eyes deep in thought. “I… maybe? I just…”

“It’s not what you expect,” Phil says quietly.

“No. It’s not,” Techno confesses, “Yeah, I guess he is a bit better, but… we still have a long road, I think.”

“Well… I’m glad we won’t have to drive it alone.”

~ ~ ~

A week passes from then, the spring season in full swing. Phil makes sure to get Chayanne and Tallulah outside in the fresh air. Being cooped up in the house won’t do them any good, after all.

He sets up a target out back for Tallulah to practice her throwing stars. She’s getting rather good with them, a determined shimmer in her eyes whenever one sinks into the target.

Phil helps her along with her dagger. He has plenty of experience with knives, so it’s not hard at all. Tallulah’s a fast learner. And when she stumbles, as everyone does, she has Phil and Chayanne there to pick her up.

But it isn’t like he just focuses on Tallulah. Phil helps Chayanne hone his swordsmanship, sparring with their wooden practice swords. Every now and then, Chayanne will practically beg Tallulah to practice with him. And she does, though it’s not her favorite.

“If it helps,” Phil coaches, “Hold the star with your good arm, and point with your other. It can help aim.”

Tallulah scrunches her face. “Really?”

“Works for me.”

The brunette seems to accept this, fixing her footing so she’s angled properly. She holds her left arm out, hand flat and pointing toward the center of the target. Raising her throwing star behind her, Tallulah squints an eye and tilts her head, and when she finally swings her arm and lets it fly.

It doesn’t hit the center, but it does hit the target, by the edge. Tallulah frowns, not content. But Phil just beams.

“Good job!”

“It’s not in the center,” Tallulah says.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Phil points out, “Most people wouldn’t have even hit the target. It would have veered off course or fallen short. But yours went right where it needed to go.”

Chayanne grins and runs to collect the star, shouting how cool Tallulah looked and how awesome that was. The brunette seems to be on the road to accepting the praise and reassurance as truth.

Behind them, grass rustles, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. Turning around, Phil sets a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

“Hey, Kris,” Phil says softly. He feels Tallulah relax, recovering from her brief scare. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, you know,” she says absentmindedly, blowing some hair from her face where it’s fallen from her ponytail, “Just… thought we could talk.”

“Mama!” Chayanne exclaims, excited voice getting closer and closer. Kristin’s face softens, a bright grin on her face. The boy runs into her arms and Kristin doesn’t hesitate in hugging him back.

“Hello, love,” she says, “Tell me, how have you been? Behaving for Dad?”

“Of course!” He assures her, pulling back only to lean into her side with a toothy grin, “I’ve been keeping an eye on them, don’t worry!”

Kristin smiles fondly, leaning down and kissing the top of his head. “Why, thank you, my little hero. And Tallulah? How’ve you been, dear?”

“Alright,” she replies, twisting her fingers together nervously, “Just… tired.”

It’s an hour past noon. Nobody is tired, and Tallulah slept through the night last night. But still, Kristin nods. “I am too.”

“You said you wanted to talk?” Phil asks, looking at Kristin with brows drawn together.

“Yes,” she says, patting Chayanne on the shoulder, “Why don’t you and Tallulah go do something fun while Dad and I talk?”

The kids end up wanting to practice more with the throwing stars, so Phil and Kristin move inside, sitting in the kitchen where they can keep an eye on them. It’s a mirror of their house, though some things are a slightly different color. The wainscoting is a pale brown as opposed to their white. The floorboards match. The fridge has silver handles. Despite the differences, when they sit at the table, it feels just like home.

“How are you?” Phil asks the first question on his mind.

“Good. I’m doing better, I’d say,” Kristin reports. Her hands rest on the table, curling around an invisible mug out of habit.

“That’s good to hear,” Phil smiles, reaching out and resting his hand atop hers, “The boys?”

“Tommy’s better too. He’s being more open when he needs a break and with his feelings and such,” Kristin smiles, “It’s good he’s so honest. I’m hoping it rubs off on Techno—he’s okay, but… I know he keeps a lot inside.”

“He’s worried about Wilbur getting better,” Phil sighs, “We all are. I think it hurts Techno especially that we can’t all be there for him. You know he likes to be able to do things. With this, he’s as helpless as the rest of us. It’s probably killing him inside.”

Kristin sighs, holding her head in her hands a moment before meeting Phil’s eyes. “That’s the thing—Wil’s been getting a little better. He’s been talking more and eating. It’s a bit stiff and awkward, since we don’t want to set him off, but… it’s better than he’s been yet.”

“That’s good,” Phil says, “That’s really good. We just need to take baby steps.”

“I…” Kristin starts, worrying her lip, “I was thinking of trying something.”

“Which is..?”

“You mentioned it was trackerjacker venom, right?”

“I did…” Phil confirms. Kristin was the only one who had to know, so she could best take care of Wilbur. He told her as soon as possible. “Where are you going with this?”

“What if to make him better, we just need to undo the fear?” Kristin suggests, “Instead of letting time lessen it, we unravel it ourselves.”

“Would that be safe?” Phil asks, “I don’t… I don’t wanna distress him.”

“I don’t either,” Kristin says, “Look… we both know he won’t be hurt by any of you. And if we can show him that, then we can all spend more time together to help him work through this.”

Phil looks down at the table, letting his eyes trace the rivets in the wood. He presses his mouth into a thin line. “I don’t know, Kris…”

“He needs you, Phil,” she says, “And Tallulah. If he’s going to get back to normal, he’s going to need help from people who understand him. Who know what it’s like to be in the games. That’s half of where his fear comes from, I can tell you that.”

Phil remembers coming back and being full of terror. Even when he was okay, sitting home or taking a walk around the village, there would be an indescribable sense within him, screaming about a threat that didn’t exist. Kristin helped. Missa helped. But they never quite understood. Phil had to deal with that alone.

Tallulah still isn’t there, yet. The nightmares are frequent, her mind still searching for something that can’t be found. Maybe if this works… Wilbur and Tallulah could help each other. 

“What did you have in mind?” Phil asks.

“I want you to talk to him,” Kristin explains, “Just a bit. It doesn’t even have to be one-on-one, but some kind of communication to show him there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“What if that just scares him more?”

“Do you remember when he was learning to swim?” Kristin asks.

Phil blinks, a surprised laugh coming from his mouth. “What?”

“When we were reaching Wilbur and Techno how to swim in the lake in the forest,” Kristin says, “Poor Wil was terrified of everything—he was worried there was something in the water, then he was scared of it getting in his face, of breathing it in, of drowning.”

“He was also afraid that one of us would get eaten by a giant eel,” Phil chuckles, “Yes, I remember that.”

“So you remember how to conquer those fears, all Wilbur had to do was try?” Kristin continues, “And then once he realized it was fine, that it was safe, he wasn’t afraid anymore.”

Phil smiles at the memory. “We couldn’t get him out of the water for hours.”

“Exactly,” Kristin chuckles, “It’s like that. Sometimes, you need to be afraid to overcome your fears. I don’t think this will be any different. He just has to see he has no reason to be afraid.”

That… makes sense, in a way. Coming from anyone else, Phil would call them crazy, but this is Kristin. The last thing she’d want to do is harm. And truthfully… she looks hopeful. It makes Phil want to hope too.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, “But someone has to be there. For his sake.”

“I’ll ask Techno,” Kristin says, “They’re already attached to the hip—you know how Techno worries.”

“That’s good,” Phil says, “He already promised to protect Wilbur. Maybe that will mean something.”

“I think it will mean everything.”

~ ~ ~

Phil paces the front hall, wearing a path in the floorboards. His mind races and fear mixes with anticipation in his stomach, creating a terrible ball of emotion that spins around, its spikes tearing him open from within.

Wilbur agreed to talk. That’s why he’s outside, sitting on the fountain, speaking quietly with Techno. It’s why the elder of the two reaches out a comforting hand. It’s why Phil is tearing himself apart at this very moment.

Logically, Phil knows Wilbur had to have agreed, and thus will be expecting to see him. Tricks would only lead to broken trust. Nobody wants that.

Phil just hopes this will go well. He knows that it won’t be easy for either of them. Wilbur is no doubt still afraid. That wouldn’t disappear overnight. And Phil is simply terrified of looking into Wilbur’s eyes and not seeing anything but fear and hatred.

There’s a knock on the door, stirring Phil from his thoughts and halting his steps. Tallulah and Chayanne are upstairs, tucked away in her room, no doubt watching from the window. Phil already made it clear what was going on. They know not to intervene.

So when Phil opens the door, he isn’t surprised when Techno stares back at him.

“You look like shit,” he huffs, his arms crossed. His position blocks Wilbur from view. It’s almost a mercy, letting Phil play pretend a bit longer.

“You’re one to talk,” Phil huffs, “When’s the last time you got a full sleep, mate?”

“When was the Reaping?” He asks, and Phil can’t tell if he’s joking or not. That doesn’t soothe his nerves at all. “Anyway… you comin’, or what?”

Phil nods, fiddling with his shirt as Techno turns around, stepping down the first stair. He quickly follows, keeping pace while not moving too fast. Anything to be the least intimidating person on the planet.

Wilbur stares off into the distance, a little too rigid to be unawares. Phil lets Techno approach first.

“Hey, Wil,” he says, taking a seat by his twin and squeezing his hand, “You alright?”

“Fine,” Wilbur replies curtly.

Phil steps a few paces away, backing up to put some distance between them as he makes it into Wilbur’s vision. The brunette looks up at him, a tension on his face. His hold on Techno’s hand tightens.

“Hi, mate,” Phil says quietly.

Wilbur steals a glance at Techno, who nods with a small smile. Only then does he return his gaze to Phil, muttering, “Hello.”

“Mom says you’ve been doing a bit better,” Phil starts, “Are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Phil nods, trying to think of anything to say. Something needs to change from this conversation, something for the better.

The sooner Wilbur can heal, the sooner they’ll all be happier. The less he’ll have to suffer. The quicker they’ll get to normalcy. All around, it only benefits Wilbur and everyone around him.

“Could I ask you a question, Wilbur?”

The brunette blinks, shoulders creeping up to his ears as he glances to his twin for advice. Techno just nods.

“Sure.”

Phil takes a seat, keeping his hands in sight. Every motion is slow and practiced. Wilbur never takes his eyes off of him for a second, and Phil can’t blame him. He hasn’t been through half of what WIlbur has—the trackerjacker venom and the fear that comes with it, the explosions that still scar his arms, neck, and parts of his jaw, the poison rain and gas, having to defend another in the arena… he’s so much stronger than Phil could ever be, he thinks.

“I know you’re afraid of me,” Phil begins, “Could I ask why?”

After a moment’s quiet, a blank, almost shocked expression on Wilbur’s face. Then he laughs. It’s bitter and disbelieving, but it’s somethingother than montone, short answers. Techno casts Wilbur a questioning look.

“What kind of question is that?” Wilbur laughs, “You—you’re a monster.”

Techno’s face drops like a bag of stones. “Wil—”

“It’s okay, Techno,” Phil says. It’s nothing Phil doesn’t already know himself. “He can say whatever comes to mind.”

“I know what you’ve done,” Wilbur spits, “The people you’ve hurt, the people you’ve killed. I don’t know why they call you the Angel because they may as well just call you Death.”

“I’m also called the Reaper, to be fair,” Phil comments.

Though it just makes him grit his teeth. “You sit here all calm as if I can’t see the blood on your hands,” Wilbur huffs, “You masquerade around as another normal, innocent person, and somehow, you’ve fooled everyone. But not me! I know what you’ve done, I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”

“Calm down,” Techno chides, setting a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder.

“Why should I?! Everyone acts like everything is fine!” Wilbur cries, turning to Techno, “But I know it’s not! Nobody else is afraid of him, and I—I don’t get it!”

“Wilbur,” Phil calls, the teen’s fiery gaze snapping to him, “How old do I look to you?”

He blinks, faltering, and the flames flicker. “W-what?”

“Genuine question—how old do I look to you?”

It’s a simple question, one that has a very simple answer. But Wilbur just scrutinizes it as though there’s a trick he must find and solve. Thankfully, Techno leans over to help him.

“You can say old,” he says, reminiscent of jokes that used to fall so easily off their tongues, “It’s okay.”

Wilbur shrugs. “Okay. Old.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Wilbur answers much quicker, “My birthday passed in the Capitol.”

“It did. So may I ask you another question?” Phil ventures.

“If it tells me where your line of thinking goes, then be my guest.”

“I was in the games just like you were,” Phil starts, “I was seventeen. Like you were. But tell me, Wilbur, if I’m so old as you both agree, how could you remember my games?”

“Maybe you just haven’t aged well,” Wilbur huffs.

Phil snorts. “That’s fair, mate. But tell me, if you’re eighteen, then how were you alive to even see my games?”

“Simple, you’re not as old as you look.”

“Mate, I was in the Quarter Quell,” Phil points out, “The 50th Hunger Games. Why else were there so many people? There’s only twenty-four in a typical game, but there were forty-eight in that arena. It’s not hard to date that game, Wilbur.”

Wide brown eyes blink at him. Phil waits for a moment to see if he musters a response, but instead, it seems as though he can’t find one. Techno smiles at his side, gaze flicking between the two.

“That…” Wilbur starts, barely audible, “No, I—I remember it.”

“But you weren’t there,” Phil says simply, “You couldn’t have been. So how can you remember it?”

Wilbur stands up suddenly, the fountain spewing forth water in a steady trickle. Techno calls his name quietly, reaching for his hand, but when he goes to take it, Wilbur leaves, walking quickly back home.

Phil lets out a long sigh. “Does he hate me?”

“No,” Techno says absentmindedly, staring at the house he grew up in, “No, I don’t think so. I think he’s confused.”

“Confused? About what?”

“It’s like you said—he thinks he remembers your games. But he couldn’t have been there, we were born the next year, after the 51st.”

“He saw footage,” Phil explains, “They played him the recordings of my games.”

Techno appraises him for a moment. “Dad? Be honest with me—what did they do to my brother?”

“Trackerjacker venom,” Phil says, “Diluted to cause fear. Pac and Cellbit think that combined with the recordings of me and Tallulah’s games, it made Wil afraid of us.”

For a beat, Techno is quiet. But then he huffs. “Makes sense now, I guess.”

“What does?”

“Wilbur always talks about your games like he was there,” Techno says, “Even though I haven’t seen anything from them. He always claims you hurt him—tried to kill him—when you never did.”

Phil rests his head in his hand, gritting his teeth. Gods, if Wilbur thinks that… if his mind is somehow putting him in the place of the tributes Phil killed…

A chill runs down his spine, quick and painful like a flash of lightning.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be the one to talk with him then,” Phil says quietly.

“If not you, then who?” Techno asks, “He’s just as scared of Tallulah, if not more so.”

Phil winces at the thought. “What about Chayanne? Wilbur is only off with him a little bit.”

“That won’t be enough to help,” Techno argues, “And I told him before that if he wanted to leave, if he was too scared, to just say the word and I’d take him back inside. He didn’t. He left on his own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re not scaring him. I think you’re getting through to him.”

~ ~ ~

One night, a few days later, Phil is up late. He’s not entirely sure why. He’s exhausted. Chayanne had far too much energy last night, and it was an early rise with Tallulah’s scare early this morning.

Poor girl woke up screaming for Wilbur. And Phil just sat there trying to tell her that it’s okay, that he’s safe and just across the street, but… fear changes what you believe. And Wilbur wasn’t there to prove it himself.

So Phil is… so tired. In more ways than one 

Yet still, he’s awake. The moon and stars shine bright outside, almost taunting as the bags under his eyes grow darker still.

He sits on the couch, almost succumbing to the pull of sleep when there’s a pounding knock on the front door that yanks him from its grasp. The clock says it’s two in the morning. Who the hell is knocking at this hour?

It must be important, right? Because as Phil rises, the knocking continues, so he moves quicker in the hopes of it not waking the kids.

But when he opens the door, his heart nearly explodes in his chest.

“Wilbur?!” Phil hisses in surprise, “Mate, what—what are you doing here? It’s late, you should be home with the others!”

“I should,” Wilbur agrees, “But I’m not. I can’t stand another minute in that house.”

“What?”

“It’s driving me crazy!” Wilbur laughs, “I don’t know what’s real or not anymore. Not since the other day when we talked.”

“Woah, woah,” Phil says, fighting the urge to set a comforting hand on his shoulder. Instead he just backs up and lets Wilbur drift in, heading for the couch. “What do you mean you don’t know what’s real?”

“I mean, you were right,” Wilbur huffs, sitting down, “That wasn’t real, was it? It was all just a lie?”

Phil takes a seat in the arm chair, giving Wilbur ample space. He can hardly believe the intense hope on his son’s face. “What do you mean?”

“All that stuff about your games,” Wilbur says, “That can’t have been real, right?”

“Wilbur, that…” Phil trails off. He hates to add Wilbur’s hope to the long list of things he’s killed. “I was in the Second Quell. I did kill.”

“But I wasn’t there to see it. Right?” He pushes.

“Of course not. You weren’t even born.”

“So it wasn’t real,” Wilbur declares, “I—I thought I was there. Which, thinking about it, doesn’t even make sense ‘cause I was only in these past games, but… it felt so real…”

“Then yes. It wasn’t real.”

Wilbur slumps back into the couch, the beginnings of a smile on his face. He seems content. It’s weird to see him so relaxed around Phil, but maybe his curiosity, his desire for the truth, overcomes his fear.

And maybe Phil is lighter than he’s ever been, seeing his son’s face in front of him, no visible traces of terror.

“What else is fake then?”

“Fake?” Phil repeats, “What do you mean fake?”

“After you mentioned the age thing, I noticed something,” Wilbur says, “When I’d think back, all those memories were… a little hazy. Like they were shrouded in smog.”

“So would this… smog mean a memory is fabricated?” Phil asks.

“I think so,” Wilbur says, “Gods, I hope so.”

“And I’m guessing you want to poke around?” Phil smiles.

“Yeah… yeah I do… Phil.”

It takes a moment for the name to register, and when it does, Phil can’t help but smile so wide it hurts, tears stinging his eyes. It’s not Dad, but it’s not Angel, either. And maybe that’s what matters most.

“Then ask away,” he says.

Wilbur is eager to. It seems he has a long list of questions that he’s been seeking answers for. He’s had days to think, and it’s all coming to a head. 

They make a sort of game out of it.

“Let's start easy,” Wilbur says, “You’re my dad.”

“Real,” Phil says without a moment’s hesitation. 

“Mom’s favorite color is purple.”

“Real.”

“Okay,” Wilbur hums, “Okay now it’s—now it’s other things.”

“Ask away, mate.”

“You taught us to fight growing up to prepare us for the games,” Wilbur says.

“Real,” Phil confirms, “I was just scared that if the day came one of your names was pulled, I’d lose you.”

Wilbur nods, filing it away. “I wasn’t alive for your games, so I wasn’t there.”

“Real.”

“And you didn’t hurt me.”

“Real,” Phil says, “I’d sooner die than do that, Wilbur.”

 “And… what about Chayanne? Was he in a game?”

“Not real,” Phil says, “He’s never been in one. It was his second year being eligible when you got called, but he never participated.”

“Huh,” Wilbur mutters, “Then why do I… why do I feel like I should run when I’m around him?”

“I think that would be because he reminds you of someone,” Phil says carefully, “Or rather… she reminds you of him.”

Wilbur blinks. “Is it—is it her?”

“Yeah. Yeah I think so,” Phil smiles sadly.

The brunette frowns, bringing a pillow to his chest and crossing his arms. “It’s not fair. First she backstabs me, then tries to kill me, and now she’s ruining my relationship with my baby brother.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Phil interrupts, “Not real. What are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t want to be around Chayanne?” Wilbur asks, “I do, but I just—I can’t be! And if she’s the cause, then it’s her fault.”

“No, not real. That’s the Capitol’s fault,” Phil says, “They made you afraid of her. Your brain connected that to Chay. It’s not your fault or hers, mate.”

“Even so, she’s done plenty more.”

“None of that is real,” Phil argues, “I was your mentor. I was watching you the whole time I could, Wilbur.”

“But she did,” Wilbur insists, “She tried to kill me at every turn and she pushed me into the explosions!”

“Not. Real,” Phil insists, firm, “You sang her lullabies to sleep and braided her hair in the mornings. You looked out for her, and she looked out for you in return.”

Wilbur pauses. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“It’s the truth,” Phil maintains, “Never once did either of you hurt one another. In fact, if you’re up to it… I’d recommend talking to her. Like you did me. I think hearing it from her might help.”

Phil thinks Wilbur is going to ignore him for a moment. He burrows into the couch and maneuvers underneath a throw blanket. But then, after a long, drawn out sigh…

“I’ll think about it,” Wilbur mutters, shutting his eyes.

And Phil… will take that. It’s a start.

“Okay. Good night, Wil.”

“Night, Dad,” Wilbur murmurs, head leaning against the cushion.

He falls asleep practically the second after, so he doesn’t see Phil’s eyes widen, his face splitting into a smile. He doesn’t know how Phil’s heart melts. He doesn’t know how much that one little word means to him.

But that’s okay. All that matters is that Phil is still his dad.

(In the morning, there will be a ruckus when Wilbur can’t be found.

But Phil, on his third cup of coffee, will be more than happy to tell them all about the previous night. He’ll show them Wilbur sleeping soundly on the couch.

And maybe then, they too start to believe that he’s healing.)

~ ~ ~

“Hello, Philza!” Baghera grins, “How are you?”

Phil laughs from his spot at his desk. It’s odd to see his friends’ faces on a screen, but it’s a welcome change. Now, without threat from the Federation listening in, watching their every move… they’re free to talk.

“I’m good, Baghera,” Phil smiles back, “How are things in the Capitol?”

“Very good!” She exclaims, “We have our temporary council. Missa and that mayor you were talking about just arrived yesterday, so we’re going to meet tomorrow.”

“I’m glad they made it safely,” Phil says, “What about you and the others? Pomme? Everyone good?”

“Yes! Yes, everyone is great, Philza,” Baghera says, “You know… it’s a lot to get used to, but most of us are here anyway. So it’s not that different from Thirteen. And we get all the luxury of the Capitol!”

“Hard work does have its benefits,” Phil chuckles, “Glad everyone is well.”

“Me too, me too. Pomme has been having fun with the other kids, and even has a new friend!”

“Really? Who?”

“Tubbo found a little orphan named Sunny. She’s from the Capitol, but he kind of took her in. Calls himself her dad and everything. I swear I’ve heard her call him ‘Pa.’”

Phil rolls his eyes. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m serious! If you don’t believe me, I could track him down—”

“No, no,” Phil says, “I believe you, but isn’t he fifteen? That’s not an age to be a father.”

“He’s sixteen,” Baghera says, “His birthday was before we got to Thirteen.”

“My point still stands.”

“It’s fine,” she assures him, “He just acts like an overbearing big brother. I think he nearly melted when she called him Pa, though. It’s rather funny.”

“Well… I’m glad a kid who needs help is getting it,” Phil sighs.

“Me too. Speaking of…” she trails off, frowning, “How are things with Wilbur?”

“Honestly… a bit better,” Phil replies, “I think we’ve gotten a breakthrough. His memories seem to be affected too, so we’re working on differentiating what’s real and what’s not.”

“That’s very good!” Baghera cheers, clapping, “Oh, that’s great to hear, Philza!”

“Yeah! Yeah, it really is,” Phil agrees, “We can spend time around each other now. Not everyday, I don’t want to ruin anything, but… enough. We’re just taking it slowly.”

“That’s the smart way,” Baghera says, “You don’t want to give up the progress you have. How’s Tallulah?”

“Well… that’s a bit more complicated.”

“Oh no… is he still afraid of her?”

“As far as I know, yes,” Phil sighs, “Though I think he’s working on it. I asked him to try and talk to her, and he seemed a bit receptive. So hopefully soon, we’ll all be able to help him out. He’s just… sorting through memories. It’s confusing.”

“I’ll bet,” Baghera says with a lopsided smile, “I’d be so confused if that was me, Phil! I’m sure their talk will go great. And before you know it, everything will go back to normal.”

“Here’s hoping,” Phil says simply. He can’t force anything, so all he can do is hope. Even if that gets harder everyday.

“Baghs!” A voice that sounds like Cellbit calls, “Come on, we’re going!”

She looks away from the screen, shouting back. “But I’m talking with Phil! It’s important!”

Phil rolls his eyes fondly. “Baghera, you can—”

Cellbit pops into view, nearly pushing Baghera out of frame. He grins and waves. “Hi Phil!”

“Hi, Cellbit,” Phil laughs, “Good to see you.”

“You too, you too!” He says, pushing Baghera further away. She squawks out a complaint when he takes her seat. “How are things?”

“They’re good,” Phil says, “Very good. But you two have somewhere important to be, and I won’t be the one to keep you.”

“We’re just going to celebrate that everyone who’s coming is here,” Cellbit waves his hand dismissively, “They can wait a bit.”

“And so can you,” Phil says, “I’m hanging up now! Enjoy yourselves!”

“Bye bye Phil!” Baghera calls, the top of her head popping into frame, hand waving.

“Bye, Phil,” Cellbit waves sadly.

Phil just smiles and turns off the call. It’s refreshing to be able to talk with each other over such long distances without fear. It makes the world a little less lonely.

A quick knock sounds from the other side of the door, and before Phil can get an answer out and into the air, it opens anyway. Tommy ducks in, shutting the door behind him and striding over to lean on the desk.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Toms,” Phil says, “What’s up? Need another break?”

“No, no,” the teen says, “I just… things are actually getting better, I think.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Tommy smiles, “Wilbur’s been talking more, even if he has his days. Mom has been more lively since Wilbur came and saw you. I think that made her really happy.”

“Good. I’m glad,” Phil returns the smile easily, “Wil’s wanting to get better. He’s taking his own steps out of his comfort zone to do that. It’s a good sign, and I think it means things will only keep improving.”

“Me too,” Tommy says, “And… speaking of all that taking-steps-comfort-zone shit, uh… Wil is willing to try to talk to Tallulah.”

Phil blinks, stunned for a moment. It’s been about a week since he and Wilbur talked things out that late night. A week since “Angel” became “Phil” became “Dad” again. It feels like a lifetime and a moment all at once. He almost doesn’t believe it.

“He does?”

“He wants to try,” Tommy confirms, “He and Techno are out by the fountain now.”

“They—they’re what?!”

“Outside!” Tommy repeats, “Waiting! Is that okay?”

Is it? Tallulah’s not ready, even if Wilbur is. She doesn’t know that they’ll be talking, she hasn’t prepared. Phil has to speak with her first. He needs to make sure she knows several things before she goes out there— if she goes out there. She doesn’t have to. 

“I… have to go talk with Tallulah about it,” Phil says absentmindedly, standing from his desk in a hurry, “Quickly. Before she goes out there.”

“I’ll go tell Wil,” Tommy says, “Don’t worry.”

They split up, Phil heading upstairs to Tallulah’s room. He knocks on the door, calming his breathing, and enters only when Tallulah allows it.

“Hi, Phil,” she says distantly, sitting atop her bed with her hair stubbornly in her hands, twisted in knots around her fingers.

“Hey,” Phil breathes, “What are you… what are you doing?”

“Oh! I was just… trying to braid my hair,” she says, dropping her hands, “Trying.”

“Maybe Techno could teach you?” Phil suggests, sitting on the bed when directed to do so, “Or Kristin?”

“No,” Tallulah says suddenly, “No, no, it’s… fine. I can wait.”

Phil smiles a bit sadly. “Well… you might not have to wait as long as you think,” he says, continuing at her confused expression, “Wilbur is outside. With Techno. He… wants to talk, if you’re up for it.”

Tallulah blinks, taking a few moments to process the news. Then, ever so quietly, she asks, “Really?”

“Yes. Look out the window.”

She leaps from the bed, scrambling over to the window. She grabs the windowsill and peers out, gasping at the sight before jumping back over, excited.

“Let’s go, Phil! Let’s go!” Tallulah grabs his hand and tugs, trying to pull him up. 

He just laughs, remaining firmly in place. “Tallulah, I want to say some things first.”

“Like what?” She asks cheerily.

“Serious things,” Phil says, “Wilbur’s still fragile, you know that, right?”

Tallulah’s expression turns grim, brows pinched together and mouth twisted in a pout. She nods. “Yeah. Of course he is, a lot’s happened.”

“And even I’m not fully okay to be around him. At least not constantly,” Phil says, “His memories are all weird. Shifted. Changed. He’s trying to sort the real from the fake.”

“Oh,” she says, “Is… is he fixing it?”

“He’s trying,” Phil says, “Very hard. Like you’re trying to learn to braid. It’s just difficult. He has nobody to teach him, just like you. But it’s scary, and… he might say some things.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Things he doesn’t mean,” Phil replies, “And I want to make sure you know he would never say those things. He’s just confused. He’s just hurting. He wants to figure out what happened and who he is, he just… hasn’t yet.”

“Okay,” Tallulah nods, “I’ll just take it with a grain of salt.”

“A little more than that,” Phil murmurs, “You can feel however you want about what he might say, but know it’s not him. It’s not what he truly thinks.”

Tallulah stares. “You’re worrying me, Phil.”

“I’m sorry, I just…” he sighs, seeing a hand on her shoulder, “I want you to be okay. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I won’t,” she smiles softly, “It’s just talking with Wilbur. It will—it will be okay.”

Phil recalls the first time Tallulah tried to see Wilbur—how she ran in, bursting with excitement, only to be met with a scream. With total fear. That was more than a month ago. Tommy’s birthday is just around the corner, summer rapidly approaching, along with the date of the would-be 69th Hunger Games that will never transpire. 

“I hope you’re right,” Phil sighs, squeezing her shoulder and standing, “Come on. Let’s go see Wil.” 

She grins with excitement, barely able to contain her energy. Phil leads her down the stairs, giving her all sorts of little tips—move slowly, keep your distance, remain calm. He overflows with information, and the door greets them too soon.

“Follow me,” Phil whispers, hand resting on the knob, “Let me go first, okay?”

“Okay.”

Phil steps out into the air, a sense of deja vu washing over him. That attempt at communication, the one that feels so distant now, had ended rather unspectacularly. If anything, Phil would say it went poorly.

But he’s seen a lot and done a lot. The soft core of his heart has been hardened time and time again, layers of rough exterior building up again and again and again. Perhaps, like an oyster, there still lies a pearl, but that is up in the air. Phil can handle venomous words thrown at him like knives. Tallulah… not so much. Despite everything, she’s still a bleeding heart.

“Here comes Phil,” Techno says, rubbing his brother’s shoulders. Phil motions for Tallulah to stop. She does so without a word. “Relax.”

Phil stops in front of the twins, smiling. “Hey, Wilbur. How’re you feeling?”

“Fucking terrified,” he huffs, leaning into Techno’s side, “Are you sure I’ll be okay?”

“Positive,” Phil says, “I wouldn’t suggest this if you wouldn’t be. And Techno wouldn’t let you come, let alone your mother.”

Laughing lightly, Wilbur nods. “Yeah… yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“Want me to bring her over?”

With a deep breath, Wilbur nods. So Phil makes his way back over to Tallulah, who stands rigid on the front lawn of her house. She’s hesitant, that much is clear, but her gaze is pinned on the fountain.

“It’ll be alright,” Phil mumbles, “I’ll be right here the whole time. So will Techno.”

“I’m scared,” Tallulah confesses, voice small and hollow, so unlike the boisterous girl that had been there only minutes before, “What if—what if he’s still afraid? I can’t… I don’t want to make him scream again. I don’t want to scare him.”

“I know,” Phil says, because truly he does know. He knows the sound of his screams from the rescue, from the jabberjays, from the arena… far too many screams of pure terror. Not ones of joy or humor like they should be. “But you can’t let that stop you both from getting better.”

“But what if he gets worse?” Tallulah asks.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Phil promises, “It won’t be any fault of yours. Just a minor setback, okay?”

She nods, curls bouncing. Her face smooths out into an image of determination. Phil guides her over to the spot in front of the fountain where the twins sit—a decent distance away so Wilbur will feel at ease.

Phil himself sits to the side, halfway between them. He looks up to the twins, finding Techno’s hand squeezed in a death grip and Wilbur’s face a snowy white.

They just stare at each other. The air is tense, and Techno shifts uncomfortably.

Figuring he should do something, Phil starts the conversation. “You’re both safe. You’re both okay. We’re just here to talk, okay?”

Tallulah is the first to speak, quiet but there. “Hi.”

It takes a moment and some insistence from Techno before Wilbur responds with a stiff “Hello.”

“How are you feeling?” Tallulah asks, brown eyes as large as discs and full of thinly-veiled hope.

Phil looks to Wilbur for an answer. His son’s jaw is clenched tight, tears pricking his eyes, the light exposing them though he remains composed.

“I don’t know,” he says, a bit choked, “But every time I so much as look at you it feels like another dagger in my back.”

Tallulah deflates, brows furrowing as her eyes shine, a lost and dismayed expression tugging at her face.

“Wil,” Techno mutters, “Be nice.”

“Be nice?” Wilbur laughs, a few tears slipping through, “Techno she tried to kill me—”

“Not real,” Phil chimes in. Wilbur looks past Techno to see him, eyes fixed on Phil’s. 

“I was there,” Wilbur insists, “I know I was. It’s not like our game was eighteen years ago, it was only one. One! I was there!”

“What about the smog?” Phil asks.

“I don’t know!” Wilbur exclaims, voice faltering. He lowers it. “I—I’m not good at figuring out what’s real and what isn’t. So right now, all I know—all I can feel— is her trying to kill me, time and time again.”

“Wilbur, I… didn’t,” Tallulah breathes, “I wouldn’t!”

“Then explain the scars that I have,” Wilbur snaps, “The explosions you pushed me into. The slices from your sword on my face. Things like that don’t just disappear—”

“That was other people,” Techno says, “Not Tallulah. The scratch on your face? A girl from One. The claw marks were a girl from Two. The explosions were the Capitol’s fault.”

“You weren’t there,” Wilbur grits out, “I was. It was her sword, Techno. It was her who pushed me so she could get out.”

Tallulah doesn’t say anything to refute it, even if the rest of the people here know the truth of it all. She just stares sadly, taking every sharp word like a dagger to the heart, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. 

“Remember the smog, Wilbur,” Phil coaches him, “Just look for it. It will be there.”

“Fuck the smog!” Wilbur cries, pulling his arm from Techno’s grip and standing, “What you should be caring about—what you all should be caring about—is that the person who tried to kill me lives across the street! And she may have you fooled but not me! I don’t care if she’s thirteen or thirty or seven, she’s a killer. I’m not going to sit here, terrified out of my mind at the thought that she might finish the job! And you would all just sit there and call me crazy!”

Techno reaches out, frowning. “Wil, nobody is sayin’ that—”

“You don’t have to!” Wilbur shouts, “I know it’s true. So don’t waste your breath, I… I’m done. This was a stupid fucking idea…”

He tears away from his twin, speeding off toward home once again. Only this time, it doesn’t have the possibility of a brighter tomorrow. That only went terribly. 

It’s when the door shuts that Tallulah bursts into sobs. 

Phil curses under his breath, scrambling over to sit next to her. As soon as he’s there, she buries her face in his shoulder, trying to hide. 

He doesn’t want to tell her lies. 

“I’m right here, Tallulah,” Phil says instead, “I’m here. I… I’m sorry.”

Techno sits nearby, not knowing what to do but concern evident on his face. The only person he knows exactly what to do for is Wilbur, his other half, who he knows better than himself. But even that security has flown out the window like a butterfly destined for the outside world—never really yours, impossible to find again. 

“What—what did I do?” Tallulah asks, the question a sob that splits the heart in two. 

“Nothin’,” Techno says, “He just… doesn't know what he’s sayin’.”

“But he—he believes it,” Tallulah argues, “He thinks I hurt him, that I wanted to kill him, but I—I never would—”

“We know,” Phil says, trying to calm her, “Lulah, I was watching you two the entire game. I know. And deep down, he knows too, he just has to work to figure that out, okay?”

“It might just take a little longer for him to sort it out,” Techno adds, “It’s just… it’s just what the Capitol did to him. Messin’ with his head, y’know? He never did anything but care about you.”

“I know that,” Tallulah cries, pulling away and meeting Techno’s eyes, “That’s why it hurts.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Phil starts, “He called me a monster. Said I should be called Death. Said he could see the blood on my hands and that I was masquerading as a normal person,” he huffs a laugh, Tallulah’s face pinched in worry, “But then… a few days later… he sorted it out on his own. Came to me in the middle of the night and everything.”

“And you think—you think that’ll happen a-again?” Tallulah asks.

Techno reaches up to tug at his still-too-short hair, an old, nervous habit. It’s clear he isn’t sure. Tallulah stares with shiny, hopeful eyes, as though Phil has the entire plan for the universe in his mind. He wishes he did… for everyone’s sake, he wishes. Sadly, that’s just not the case.

“I do,” he says anyway, “I really do.”

“Just hang in there, okay, kid?” Techno says, “I know Wil. He’ll come around eventually, I promise.”

Tallulah nods, sniffling and rubbing at her eyes, as if she believes that. Phil is able to convince her to go inside, and he’ll meet her there in a bit to settle down. She goes off, probably to find Chayanne.

Phil and Techno just sit for a moment, wondering what to do. 

~ ~ ~

The answer doesn’t come until much later that day, when Phil gets ready to go to bed and hope tomorrow is different, pray that dreams are kind, and wish for a break.

On the dresser sits a box. He hasn’t unpacked everything quite yet, so he’s not sure how it got there. Maybe Chayanne was bored. 

Phil takes off the lid, an emerald necklace staring back. 

The note it originally came with is still burned into his mind: What we could save.

And what it really meant: All that’s left. 

Mike had given him a new chain for it, Mouse had helped polish it up, ridding it of its streaks. And now it’s as good as new, still glimmering and precious despite all it’s been through.

Phil lets his fingertips grace it, just a touch.

Maybe he can prove the Capitol wrong one last time. To spite the President, who can’t be far enough away, even in a grave.

For now, Phil shuts the box.

~ ~ ~

Two days go by, two days of planning and practicing what to say. They can’t push Wilbur, but he can’t go about being confined to the house with false memories. 

That’s not fair to anyone, Wilbur included.

Phil tucks the necklace into a pocket, making sure everything is settled. He’s discussed this with Kristin and the boys, barring Wilbur and Chayanne, and they’re all in agreement—they need to try and change something. They need to get through to Wilbur, too stubborn and hurt to see he’s hurting other people.

Before he goes, he makes sure Tallulah and Chayanne are settled. They’re fine, Chayanne making sure Tallulah has plenty of blankets on the couch, and an exorbitant number of books to keep them entertained.

With a smile, Phil promises to be back soon. 

He crosses the path to get to the house, familiar and full of so many memories that play like movies in his vision. For a moment, Phil hesitates, wondering whether or not he should knock on his own door.

Thankfully, it opens before he even raises his fist, Kristin smiling through the threshold. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Phil returns with a smile, “You ready?”

“The boys are in the kitchen,” she confirms, “Ready to go when you are.”

Kristin steps back, letting Phil enter the home he hasn’t been in for… months. And yet somehow it’s still his. The door that creaks when Kristin shuts it still needs to be shoved closed. The floorboards still mold to his footsteps. 

Everything has changed, everything remains the same. 

The pair make their way to the kitchen, their oldest three sitting around the table. Techno is merely observing while the younger two talk, Tommy as expressive as ever.

“Alright,” Kristin says, pulling Phil along to stand by the counter, “We’re all here. Let’s get started.”

Wilbur blinks, looking at each of them with a question in his eyes. “What? What do you mean ‘get started?’”

“She means we’re having a chat,” Tommy says, “Family meeting. Or, well, mostly family meeting. Five sevenths a family meeting.”

“Why do we need to meet?” Wilbur asks.

“Because you’re not getting better, sweetie,” Kristin says, walking over and setting her hands on Wilbur’s shoulders, “And I know you’re trying, and I’m so so proud of the progress you’ve made. You’ve just hit a wall.”

“But—” Wilbur starts, brow furrowed, “What else is there to do? I’m okay with Dad now, and… and sure, the games are still…there, but I’ve gotten better!”

“That’s true,” Techno says, “And we all know that.”

“We’re just saying you’re blocking yourself from healing fully,” Phil adds, “If you’re sure your memories are all in order, then tell me they are.”

Wilbur opens his mouth but shuts it just as quickly. There’s a clear war in his mind that Phil isn’t sure if he can win.

But hey—he’s been an underdog before.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Kristin continues, “Gods, I’m scared all the time, for all of you. But sometimes you have to dive in headfirst to be rid of that fear.”

“I tried that,” Wilbur mumbles, “It was too much.”

“What about it was too much?” Techno asks, “It was the same as when we talked with Dad.”

Wilbur shifts in his chair. “She… well, she’s scarier than him.”

Tommy cackles, pressing a fist to his mouth to halt the sound. Wilbur quirks a brow, questioning but knowing his little brother.

“Sorry, I just… Tallulah? Scarier than Dad?”

“I’m not scary,” Phil huffs, “Am I?”

“No,” Tommy says, “But I mean, come on! You or a thirteen-year-old little girl?”

“Yes, yes, I’m ridiculous, I know,” Wilbur snarks, “So sorry I’m not perfect.”

“You don’t have to be,” Techno says, reaching out a hand and setting it atop his twin’s, “All we’re sayin’ is we don’t want to see you stuck in an unhappy rut your whole life. You don’t deserve that because of what other people did to you.”

“That’s what you don’t understand,” Wilbur stresses, leaning back into Kristin’s touch, “I’m fine! I am! Everything is fine.”

“It can’t be,” Phil says softly, “Not when you’re still having nightmares that none of us can help with, not even me. Our games were so different, Wil. There’s only one other person who knows exactly how it feels.”

“I’m not going to have another chat with the person who tried to kill me!”  

“We would never ask that of you,” Techno says, “We’d never put you in danger.”

“Ever,” Phil agrees, “But… think about it like this—let’s say everything that’s happened has happened. But instead of Tallulah there, it was any of your brothers—Chayanne, Tommy, Techno…”

“Dad, it has to be a boy and a girl,” Wilbur says, “That wouldn’t happen.”

“But it has,” Phil says, “District Nine pissed off the Capitol one year. Made it completely random to punish everyone for their attempted rebellion. Some places, it was still a boy and a girl. Others, it was two girls, or two boys. It could happen.”

“But it didn’t,” Wilbur insists.

“Entertain me,” Phil smiles, not quite reaching his eyes, “What would you do then?”

“Look out for them,” Wilbur replies, eyes locked on Phil. Something burdened lies in the deep brown, something he can’t describe. “Protect them if I could.”

“And Tallulah is Chayanne’s friend,” Phil says, “His only one, when this all started. You wouldn’t try to protect her? Even if he asked?”

Wilbur is quiet for a moment, a questioning glint in his eye. Phil could spend all the time needed to try and figure out what’s going on in his mind and still not be entirely sure. 

There’s not enough life flowing through his bones to come to a conclusion anyway. The answer is complicated enough to take multiple lifetimes, not just what’s left of Phil’s.

“I don’t know,” Wilbur says honestly. It’s not what Phil was hoping for, but it’s not a no. 

He reaches down into his pocket, fingers quickly finding the box there. He pulls it out carefully so as to not spook Wilbur. No sudden moves—that’s still a necessity, for now, at least. 

“On the train,” Phil begins, “After the Reaping. You were scared out of your mind, Wil. Do you remember why?”

He shrugs. “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Yes, but you said something in particular,” Phil says, “You wanted to come home. But you were certain that no matter what, you couldn’t and didn’t want to kill Tallulah. And I told you that you wouldn’t.”

Phil fishes the necklace from his pocket, removing the lid and placing it underneath the box. He steps closer, presenting it to Wilbur. Recognition strikes the teen’s face. 

“This is—” Wilbur starts, shaky fingers reaching out to lift it from its place.

“Yours,” Phil replies. 

Wilbur holds it in front of him, the emerald dangling and catching the light in all the right ways. If he squints, it would be just like it was when Phil originally gifted it. 

“How… it survived?”

“So did you,” Phil says over the lump in his throat, “Later that evening, after we left, you asked me about my games. And I tried giving you that, bu—”

“But it was an earring,” Wilbur huffs out in disbelief.

“It was,” Phil laughs. He watches Kristin take the necklace with a smile, unclasping it and looping the chain around Wilbur’s neck, fastening it there. “The point is, Wil… you’re a miracle. I don’t think the strongest victors could go through half of what you did. And if you’re scared? I don’t blame you. But there’s still things you’re missing. And I know you’re brave enough to rediscover the truth.”

Wilbur looks down at the emerald almost apprehensively. When his eyes meet Phil’s again, they’re watery. “I’ll try,” he says, voice raspy, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Wil,” Kristin whispers, pulling him into a hug, “Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for. We just want you to be happy.”

“And we can tell you’re not,” Tommy adds, voice gentle, “Even if you think you are.”

“Truth is, Wil… you don’t have to be strong around us. You can let your guard down. We’ll always be here at the end of the day,” Techno says.

Wilbur nods, a shaky smile on his face as a tear slips down his cheek. “I know. Thank you all for that.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Phil smiles. He walks forward, hugging Wilbur alongside Kristin, smile tightening as he holds back his own tears when Wilbur only melts into his arms. Like before.

And… Phil may have thought he’d never get to hug his own son again. But now, he sets his chin in the familiar brown curls he’s ruffled a thousand times over. And it’s more than enough.

Phil closes his eyes, and for the first time in months… he breathes.

~ ~ ~

“I’m not tired,” Chayanne insists, burrowing into Phil’s side like a baby rabbit. The bright, orange blanket draped across them and his head on Phil’s shoulder says otherwise, though.

“Tallulah’s already up in bed, mate,” Phil laughs, turning the page of his book, “Shouldn’t you be tired too?”

“Nope,” he replies simply, “I’m never tired.”

Phil laughs and shakes his head. He bookmarks his page and sets it aside, wrapping an arm around his youngest. “Really, now? Because if I recall, you slept so long the other day that we thought you were hibernating.”

Chayanne laughs, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “That was one time! It doesn’t count!”

“What about when you were a toddler and spent half the day napping?” Phil asks, ruffling the younger’s hair.

“I don’t remember that, so it doesn’t count,” Chayanne huffs, “You could be lying for all I know.”

“Never to family,” Phil says, “Or friends. I’m actually rather honest, I’d say.”

“Then so am I!” Chayanne exclaims, “And I’m not tired.”

“Fine,” Phil chuckles, “You can have a bit longer, how’s that, Chayanne? Then we’ll both get to bed. I’m getting a bit sleepy.”

Chayanne hums in response, kicking his feet up on the arm of the couch. If he’s not careful, he’ll probably fall asleep, from the looks of it. Comfortable blanket, reclining, using Phil as a pillow… the picture of ease. 

Phil reads a few more pages of his book before there’s a loud, persistent knock on the door.

He shuts the book as Chayanne jolts, likely a rude awakening from dozing off. Phil just adjusts the blanket over him and tells him to stay put.

When he opens the door, Wilbur is there, out of breath. 

“Wil?” Phil asks, pulling him inside, “What’s—”

Before he can finish, Wilbur just stumbles forward and hugs Phil, resting his forehead on his shoulder. The brunette mumbles something Phil can’t hear. Chayanne pokes his head up behind the back of the couch. 

“It’s okay,” Wilbur murmurs, a bit louder, “You’re okay.”

“I should be telling you that,” Phil says lightly, “What brings you over here, mate? What’s wrong?”

“Had a dream,” Wilbur murmurs.

“A nightmare,” Phil prompts, guiding him to the couch, “Wil, it was just a dream, okay? Nothing real. Not real.”

He sits Wilbur on the couch beside Chayanne, who immediately shares the blanket. Wilbur flashes a smile at his brother while Phil sits on his other side.

“Thanks Chay,” Wilbur says.

“Of course,” the younger smiles, a bright one full of pride and, though only Phil could pin it, relief. Because Wilbur is casual with him, not stiff or like a stranger.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Phil offers, mindlessly carding his hand through the tangled curls.

Wilbur nods, closing his eyes. He leans closer in his search for comfort. Phil can’t imagine what has scared him so.

“I… I dreamt they killed you,” Wilbur mutters, opening his eyes briefly just to look up at Phil, “In the—in the Capitol. You were there, and…”

He pauses, choking on the words. Phil tries to calm him, whispering reassurances despite the sinking feeling in his chest. There’s something terrifying about Wilbur dreaming such a thing— a concern his mind would conjure that reality, and a funny feeling that he’d be so worried for Phil that he’d come all this way.

“I’m okay,” Phil promises. 

“And I’ve been taking care of him!” Chayanne adds, “Nobody would hurt him while I’m protecting him.”

“I know, Chayanne,” Wilbur mutters, “Thank you, that makes me feel better. I just…”

“What, Wil?” Phil prompts.

“I—it felt real,” Wilbur breathes, “And you looked at me, and you said it was okay, and then the—the President was there, and there was a bow in my hand, and—”

Phil pulls him into a hug, effectively cutting him off. “Not real,” he says, “That wasn’t real, Wilbur. And I know that if it came down to something like that, you wouldn’t. Because you’re you and you’re good and I know you.”

“I was scared,” Wilbur chokes out, “I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t—”

“I know, Wilbur,” Phil mumbles. He signals for Chayanne to go up to bed, which the kid does now without complaint. “But mate, you haven’t hurt anyone. I know you wouldn’t.”

“But I have!” Wilbur sobs, pulling back, “I was in the games, Phil, I—I did kill.”

“So did I,” Phil says, “That’s a consequence of the games. That’s what the Federation and everyone in the Capitol wants. They want us to break, Wilbur, and we can’t let them have that.”

“How do you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Phil says honestly, “It’s different for everybody. Depends on the games, the person, the timing… I had your Mom. I had Uncle Missa. And eventually, I had you and Techno.”

“I don’t have any of that,” Wilbur says miserably.

“Nonsense,” Phil breathes, “You have me. Your brothers. Mom. If Missa were here, you’d have him too. And, whether you like it or not, you have Tallulah.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Wilbur confesses, “I want to be better, Dad, and I don’t want to be afraid of her. I don’t. But—but every time I see her, it’s like another bleeding wound.”

“That’s why I don’t want you to rush anything,” Phil says, “Go as you're comfortable. But please, Wil, don’t suffer alone because you think you have nobody.”

“I won’t,” he says, “I… I know I have the best people around. I really do.”