You're not scared, not really. The Hunger Games were always part of the plan for you. Short of endangering your life, there's nothing you can think of to show your father that you're worthy of respect. He certainly hasn't figured that out yet.
The quarter quell threw a wrench in things.
Look, you had plans, alright? You had big plans. You've spent your life putting together these plans. When you were nine years old, you built yourself a set of limbs that would work better than the ones you were born with. You threw out most of your own body for the chance to win. Which makes sense to you - if you win, it'll all have been worth it, and if you die - well, you'll be dead. You won't exactly be able to regret it. But you never doubted your survival. Goddammit, you are Howard Stark's son. If he could survive the games, so can you. You're eighteen. You're ready. And the quarter quell and president Snow and the fucking Capitol has to ruin everything.
Four tributes from each district, he says. There's panic across District 1, the panic of the comfortable who have been unsettled. For the past couple of decades - hell, as far back as your father himself - the tributes from District 1 have always volunteered, and everyone's known who's volunteering months in advance. Everyone knew you were going to be the male tribute, everyone knew you were willing to fight in a quarter quell no matter what the rules, and everyone else backed the hell off. You are ready for this, the girl Nephtet is ready for this, no one else in the district was. Still, there is no reason for you to be scared. You are exactly as prepared as you always have been, and when the grinning escort onstage reaches for the boy's bowl, you volunteer, stern and loud, metal arm raised in the air. The way you've been practicing. But you cannot save the other two with your sacrifice.
You miss the girl's name - Sharp, or something - eyes boggling and zoning out under the weight and intensity of your entire district's gaze. Howard Stark's boy, standing on his half of the podium alone, mostly composed of a gold-titanium alloy and suddenly feeling scared, like maybe you should back out now. The boy's name is called. Edwin Jarvis, she says, calling it like a proud trumpet, and there's a long silence and a sick feeling. The boy stands, slowly. He is thin. Young. Maybe thirteen or fourteen, pale, freckled, and now hollow-eyed as his death sentence rings over the stadium like a gong. You do not look at him as he comes to stand behind you, his head barely as high as your shoulder. You stare straight forward and look at nothing at all.
In your nightmares, years from now, you will watch him stand and stare at you, mouth limp and eyes desperate. He will stand and stare and try to tell you something, but you are never able to make out the words.
It's not like you've changed your mind or anything, though. You still want to live, and you don't care how baby faced and terrified the unintentional tributes look, you're not going to help them out if it'll endanger your survival. You gave an arm and two legs for the chance to win - literally - and you're not giving up your sacrifice.
Your father died two nights ago. There is no time to mourn, nor do you want to. You will not be Howard Stark's Boy when you win. He can be Tony Stark's Father. This victory belongs to you.
The problem with the boy is how pitiable he always looks. Jarvis is terrible with weapons, and even though he does pretty well with the survival skills tests, you know the other tributes smell blood in the water. He's from your district, dammit, no one looks down on District 1. And as you watch him struggle with target practice, you realize that you can't just let him die, your own survival or no. God, he needs a fighting chance at least. "Aim a little up," you say, arms crossed and leaning as casually against a wall as you can, "gravity exists, especially for a far throw. You dig it?"
Jarvis loosens his pull on the string to turn and stare at you, confused, bow pointed down. Well, he looks confused. The kid's kind of impossible to read - his face is never doing the same thing his brain is, maybe. "This is a bow," he says, slowly, "I don't think I can dig anything with it."
"Wh- no, it's an expression," you say, not sure if you should be backpedaling, "it's just, like, do you get it. Just - just shoot the arrow above the target."
He frowns at you placidly, then turns back to the target and raises the bow. Draws back. Lets fly. It hits solidly above the bullseye, but it's closer than the furthest ring, where past arrows have been hanging.
"Nice," you say, "kinda lower. Try again."
He's fifteen, it turns out, even if he looks young. Hasn't hit his growth spurt yet, he thinks. The two of you have to share a room, and, to be civil, make a pact to switch who gets to sleep in the bed every other night. You find out later that the girls just share the bed - it's a king, after all - but like, come on. It's different for girls. Whatever. The point is, sharing a room gives way to staying up late and talking about nothing for no reason. You don't intend to get attached to Jarvis, or anything, but that doesn't mean you can't talk until 3 in the morning with him. You have a week until you might die for sure, and if you do die, there are things you want someone to know. Even if that someone is a skinny, freckled fifteen year old who's even more likely to die than you.
You tell him about your dad, about your first girlfriend, about the stack of hidden CDs you keep under your bed at home, about the one-legged cat that always manages to find its way onto the roof outside your window. He tells you about his favorite book, and everything you could possibly want to know about the railway system, the boy he had a crush on. He tells you he's never been kissed. You tell him he's not missing much, but you are lying. Kissing is incredible.
His aim gets better. He's a fast runner, too. You wonder how long he'll last.
The Capitol loves you, from the legacy your father left to your dedication to the cause. They call you the Iron Man, presumably because of the, uh, Definitely-Not-Iron limbs you sport as proudly as you can. You make a point to always wave with the metal arm, to stand so it'll catch the light. The idea of cutting off your legs and replacing them with prosthetic ones races through the Capitol as massively popular. You aren't surprised - with the cosmetic surgeries they willingly go through, robot limbs probably seem pretty tame. Three days into your training, you meet a woman with satyr legs who says she was inspired by you, and you pretend to think this is flattering instead of horrifying. You're very good at talking to people. Your mentor, Obadiah, nods in approval whenever you walk away from a conversation, and Nephtet glowers at you enviously. Like you, she is used to being well-liked. Neither of you take well to being the second-most popular person in a room.
The interviews are the second most important thing coming up, and you prepare for them like they're the only important thing in your life - which, well, they kind of are. You stand in front of the mirror for hours, saying the same lines over and over again, lines you've written to stroke the Capitol's ego and their bloodlust. "My old man had a saying: 'peace is having a bigger stick than the other guy'. So I ask you. Is it better to be feared, or respected? I say: is it too much to ask for both?" Stare into your own placid face. Wriggle your lips. Try again. "My old man had a saying…"
When Nephtet catches you, you are smug. You thought of this first, and you will do it better, and she curses you, runs off to write up her own clever lines. When Jarvis catches you, you are embarrassed, stammer off an explanation like an excuse and avoid eye contact. He tells you it's a good idea, that he wishes he'd thought of it, which somehow only makes you feel worse. "Is it better to be feared, or respected? I say: is it too much to ask for both?" Yes.
There's a lot of distress and hustle over whether your arm should be allowed into the stadium - it's unfair, and gives you an advantage over the other tributes, but taking it away would handicap you unfairly instead, which is, apparently, just as bad. They decide to let you keep it, but force you to disable most of its "extracurricular uses". That's fine by you. If you really needed them, you could just re-enable half the things they turned off without all the fine-tuned machinery. It wouldn't be "fair", but you're pretty sure that once you get to the arena, there are no rules.
Your special talent was going to be marksmanship, but you've been watching the other tributes, and it looks like a popular choice this year. Last minute, you switch to hand-to-hand combat. Your rating is good, your alliances firmly within the inner career circle. Your interview goes off without a hitch. "My old man had a saying: 'peace is having a bigger stick than the other guy'," and "is it better to be feared, or respected?" The audience laughs in the right places, nods mournfully when you talk about the recent passing of your father, applauds madly for you when you stand and extend your metal hand to be shaken by Caesar, raise it to wave to the audience.
Everything is ringing in your ears as you return to the hallway, meet up with the rest of your team. Nephtet is bemoaning that you outshone her, Obadiah is clapping you on the shoulder, cigar in his mouth, and over the clamor of your stylist exclaiming how well all that eye makeup reshaped your face and your escort agreeing and throwing sighs about how happy the crowd seems, you catch Jarvis' eye. "Excellent work, Mr. Stark," he says, quietly. "Don't expect I can top that."
You shrug. "You don't have to. Just go out there and hit them with your percentages or whatever, like you always do. It'll be okay."
He sort of does, but not in the way you'd expect. Maybe it's just your own prejudice or something, but you figured Jarvis would do terribly in front of crowds - he never speaks very loudly, he's hard to read, and he usually keeps his head down and his ears open - but against the heat of the spotlight, he's hysterically funny, and you don't really know what to do with this information. He's dry and deadpan and sharp enough to pick up every cue he's given, mean in an attractive and relatable way, quick, clever, placid. Things like "oh, yes, you're known for your emotionalreservation, Caesar," and "I could never do your job, I haven't nearly enough teeth," and "I find wit to be the unexpected and uninvited copulation of ideas, and exactly as uncomfortable to come across in public."
"One last question," Caesar says, still laughing into the microphone, "when we had Mr. Stark up here, we talked about District 1, and how it connected him to his father. He said he would always love the district and the Capitol and all of Panem, as is his patriotic duty. So I ask you this: what are your thoughts on Panem?"
The microphone is wiggled back in Jarvis' face, and for the first time in the interview, he pauses. You catch yourself leaning in for an answer, and try to shake yourself out of it. What are you, a Capitol citizen? "Well, I'm sure you know as well as I, Caesar," he says, slowly, "that in the end, 'patriotism' is just a word, and one I try not to attach myself to; it generally comes to mean either my country, right or wrong, which is infamous, ormy country is always right, which is imbecile."
There's a roar of laughter, a burst of applause, and Jarvis stands, shakes hands with Caesar, retreats. "What the hell," you say, and drag the kid into an uninvited hug, "where did all that come from?"
He wriggles free, wrinkles his nose at you. "Nowhere, really," he says, "I just said whatever I felt like saying."
You survey him for a minute. "Christ," you settle on after a while, "remind me never to piss you off."
"Not to be insensitive, but if you intend to piss me off you're going to have to do it soon," he says, and something in your stomach shrivels, "everything's over starting tomorrow."
Tonight was supposed to be your night on the mattress, but it's the night before the stadium, and as you watch Jarvis trying to organize pillows to make the floor comfortable, you figure, fuck it, and tell him to take half the bed instead. Backs to each other, skin contact avoided, you try to talk, then lapse into silence. You have been thinking about the interview and about everything you know about this boy, and you have come up short. You ask him if he wants to - if he would let you kiss him.
Somehow, when you wake up, you are tangled around him. He says nothing about it, and neither do you. There is nothing left to be said.
Everything's going pretty okay in the games until you hit the snare.
There's a sort-of alliance you and Nephtet have going on with the District 2s and 4s, which has served pretty well for the past week. The arena for this year is absolutely stunning, beautiful beyond measure with colored leaves on every tree, perfectly round rocks, vibrant grass and weeds - oh, and everything's poisonous. Rhodey, the boy from District 2, has checked everything you've come across. Nothing in the arena is edible save for the food stash at the cornucopia, which is already mostly depleted. There were no weapons in the cornucopia - everyone who got something from it got food, and with twice as many tributes, the food went fast. Even the "fresh water" was poisoned - one of the girls from 4 found that out too late.
Still, weapons were scattered around the arena, which you found out when you were out scouting. Everyone in your group is equipped by now - you with a collection of knives and brass knuckles, Nephtet with a long spear - and though there's no actual trust among you, there's enough to sleep at night. For now. Take turns on night watch. Watch the sky and count down to the number of survivors.
The boy you kissed is already dead. You do not have time to mourn. You were a fool to think you could help him.
"It's a week in and not even half the victors are dead," Nephtet says, "this whole thing with twice as many tributes? Stupid. This game is going to take forever."
"I think we're on some kind of death precipice," you add helpfully, "look how close we are to running out of food. Less well-managed teams are looking at starvation if they don't get aggressive. We're ready for them."
"Quit boasting," one of the guys behind you snaps, and you try suppress snorted laughter, "I hear the District 7 team was planning on hiding in the treeline. They might see your giant ego from across the map and come running."
"Look, I don't need you criticizing my ego when the biggest thing here is your bad attitude," you reply. Nephtet, at least, laughs. Apparently, no one behind you did, because you feel a pebble smack the back of your head. "Hey, no need to get aggressive, guys, we're all in this together," you say, rotating your walking pattern to face them.
"Nobody said anything," says the girl from District 2, brow wrinkled.
"Well, they didn't have to," you say, and shrug, "only an idiot wouldn't know what a rock to the skull means. Come on, which one of you threw that?"
She looks to the boy, who looks at you. Everyone stops walking at about the same time. "What are you talking about?" He says. You frown.
"Could your poker face be any lousier? Come on. Who threw the rock at me? Was it you? Come on. You or Rhodey?"
"I didn't throw anything at anyone," the boy says, suddenly looking a little aggressive and hot under the collar. You've seen that face on other boys before - it translated out, pretty cleanly, to 'I want to break your nose and probably also your teeth'.
Nephtet, apparently frustrated that no one is moving, turns from her position at the front of the line. "Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"
You ignore her. "Fine, Rhodey," you say, "but seriously, I don't wanna walk directly in front of either of you. Nep, can we switch?"
"No," she says. You ignore her again, walk past her. Which turns out to be a terrible idea.
The rope cinches tightly around your ankle and hoists you, violently, about ten feet directly up in the air. You splutter, spin slowly, stare down at your team panicking.
"You okay, Stark?"
"Yeah, I'm okay, I'm good, I'm fine," you stammer, "here, cut me down, cut me down before District 7 shows up."
Nephtet stares at you, squints, smiles slowly. "Nnnno, I don't think I will," she coos, and lowers her spear.
"What? Come on," you snap, "I'm sorry about walking in front of you, okay? Is that what this is about? The manners thing? Because I'm sorry about the manners thing, it's kind of one of my issues."
"It's not the manners thing, Stark," Rhodey says, "it's the food thing. You said it yourself - we're kind of on a death precipice. We talkin' an avalanche, here? You're rock number one." He raises the bow, pulls an arrow, and points it directly at your face.
"Wait, no, what?" Your heart rate picks up. You really wish you weren't turning gently in the air - you can imagine it's not a good position for arguing your point in. But you haven't got another choice. "You can't kill me, you need me," you try, falling back on empty bluster. "Come on, who's come up with all the plans so far? You guys can't survive without me. I have…information. About the arena."
"That's empty bluster," Nephtet says dryly, then, "Rhodey, if you would?"
You cover your face with your arms, grit your teeth - and hear a thunk, followed by screaming. Look over your arms, look for an arrow in the tree trunk, see instead a wooden bolt splitting Rhodey's windpipe in half, the rest of the team with weapons drawn spinning around. Distracted. You go for your belt, take a knife in your hand, try to climb up your own leg to the rope.
"Where did it come from?" Nephtet shrieks, "where did it - "
The next bolt hits her in the shoulder. Goes through her shoulder. She screams, falls, clutches her wound. A third hits the girl from 2, and the 4s, apparently a little more attached to their own lives than the team, make like a tree and fuck off through the forest cover.
You slice through the rope, hit the ground hard
It's dark, wherever you are, and you can hear running water. Everything hurts - your eyes, your mouth, your back, your chest - God, and your chestreally hurts, what the fuck? - and you can feel your blood pumping through your ears. You're on your back, you know that much, but you feel buzzy and dizzy. There's a thick, stuffy feeling on your chest, like you can't breathe properly - you gasp to get any oxygen in, wait for your eyes to readjust.
You're not alone. Maybe twenty feet away is a boy your age, going through a bag. You don't think he's noticed you yet, slide a hand to your belt. You could hit him from here, easy, even with your eyes going screwy. Touch a hand to your knife -
The knife's not there.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the boy says, and you freeze in terror you didn't know you could feel.
"Who are you?" You splutter, breathing hard to get the air in, "what'd you do? Where am I?"
"I am the man who saved your life. District 12, ah?" You say nothing, just stare. "We have spoken, you know," he continues casually, "in the training hall."
"I don't remember," you say as you try to roll onto your side. It's hard work. Suddenly, you understand Kafka way more.
He laughs again, but you get the feeling that it's not meant to sound pleasant. "Of course you don't," he says, smiling, "why would you remember me? I am only District 12, after all. I am no threat to the great Tony Stark. Not to a career like you."
"Why'd you save me?" You give up on getting onto your back, stare up into the darkness above you. Memories are shooting back into your brain like hot needles of thought, and you breathe harder. "What happened? To my team? What was…was that you?"
"Ah, yes," he sighs, "that, Mr. Stark, was a history lesson. You know, the invention of the crossbow changed the nature of siege warfare. Unlike the bow and arrow, the crossbow and its bolt are strong enough to penetrate even the strongest chain mail armor, or, for instance, the entire width of a man's neck. Of course, the Ancient Greeks were using them as far back as the fifth century B.C., but I shouldn't ramble on about that. What did Alexander the Great ever do, ha?" He taps his chin. "I have been following your team for some time, Mr. Stark," he adds dryly, "really, it was very lucky that you were the one who wandered into my snare. If it had been anyone else, they would never have spent so long arguing and debating. They would have just killed them."
"You didn't answer my question," you gasp, "why did you save me?"
"What am I, a search engine? If I remember correctly, I'm not the one with all the bandages and the hole in my chest. Maybe you should be offering me something instead of badgering me."
A hole in the chest?
You struggle to sit up, try to look down your own torso, and hear, for the first time, a gentle mechanical whirring to your left. Somewhere, under the mass of bandages on your sternum, something that doesn't belong in your body thrums mechanically, wires spread out from the center like the roots of a tree. You can't breathe. There is a parasite between your lungs.
The boy, to his credit, doesn't push you, and when you wake up again, there's light filtering through the darkness, which you now realize is a cave. You manage to sit up, to get to your feet, even. The wires from your chest lead directly to a box that reminds you of your father's radio, dark and square and heavy as hell. Across the cave, Yinsen sorts through piles of things from the bags. Looks like he had a couple. Or, more accurately, like your group had a couple, and now they're his.
You hold the not-a-radio in both your hands, approach him with it held in front of you. "What is this?"
"Modified land mine," he says, and you almost drop it. He smiles. "Don't worry. It can't explode. Your boy made sure of that."
"Who?"
"Edwin," he says, and you hesitate for a moment - shudder. "He made an excellent partner. Good with ideas."
"Like using a land mine as a power generator? There's a line between genius and insanity," you grumble, but despite the new intruder in it, you can feel your chest swell with pride. Jarvis - good with ideas. That's how he'd want to be remembered, you think. "So what's it plugged into?"
"Electromagnet," He replies promptly. "It's hard to explain - it's stabilizing your heart rate. If you survive the games, you will need heart surgery - but this will work for now."
You want to ask him how the hell he made an electromagnet in the games anyway, how he met with Jarvis, what the hell you're doing here and not dead with a hole in your chest, but between the humming of the mine in your arms and the renewed pain in your body, you're tired of asking questions. "Catch me up," you say instead. And he smiles, and he does.
Overview:
You've been asleep for the past three days. Or unconscious. Whatever. In that time, the starvation panic has rocketed. Seven deaths between then and now. Sixteen people remain in the arena, and there is, for all intents and purposes, no food left. Hunger is the only thing driving people now.
For the past week, the boy and his alliance were digging up the land mines that were scattered around the opening platforms near the cornucopia. There's an enormous stash of them in the cave. But he's the only member of his alliance left, and he doesn't know what to do with them now that the technological brains are gone.
The cave is near the edge of the map, far enough away from the cornucopia that no one's come far enough to look for it. He wants you to help him survive.
"Here's the plan," you say, when he finishes, "we have land mines. We're going to re-purpose them into traps. And," you say, tapping the ground with a metal finger, "my arm. I can make a kind of - particle accelerator thing - like a laser cannon - if I can get more electromagnets, or - or make some, or use this one." You tap your chest. "And while we do that, we don't kill each other. Okay?"
"And what about after that?" He says, inclining his head to the side. "When we are done, you will kill me?"
"Look," you snap, "why did you save me if you didn't want my help? I couldn't kill you in this state anyway, I can barely walk. Are you scared of me?"
"You are the last career in the stadium, Stark," he says, "I have every reason to be afraid of you. But that is not important now." He shakes his head. "We work together or die, ah? I have no food left. We work fast. One of us goes home."
You talk with him. It would be pretty hard not to talk, considering your circumstances are forcing you to break down land mines in his presence. Ask him about District 12. He tells you there hasn't been a victor from District 12 since the last quarter quell, twenty-five years ago, and that no one's seen Steve Rogers since then. In his district, the games are seen as a meat grinder.
"But he's your mentor, isn't he?" You ask, around a mouthful of screws. "So like, you met him, right? Why's he so secretive? Or is he actually dead or something, is that why he never comes on TV?"
He shrugs, doesn't look up from the wires he's slowly unfurling. "Mr. Rogers is a very…reclusive sort of man," he says slowly, "mentoring for so long, with never a winner in the games, I think he has gone a very quiet brand of insane. He taught us nothing. We asked him for help, and he would say, 'I cannot help. You will all die.' And then he would stare at his knees or walk away."
"He sounds…" you look for a word. "Terrible."
He shrugs. "The games, I think, do these things to people," he says, "when you are done, there is no room for humanity in your heart." Blinks owlishly. "Would you rather live through the games and become like him, or die in the arena?"
"I don't like either of those options. What about the option where I win, and then I marry a beautiful woman and fly off in my own personal jet? That's the future I want."
The boy laughs - not the tinned, angry laugh from before, something else entirely - and you think, maybe, you've done something right.
"So what do I call you?"
"My name is Ho Yinsen," he says, twisting wires carefully around each other. "Like this, yeah?"
"Yeah," you say, "nice to meet you, Yinsen."
"Nice to meet you too."
"So where'd you find the mines?"
Yinsen makes a noncommittal 'hmm' noise. "I don't know if you remember - a few years back, there was a tribute who dropped her token before the countdown finished - "
You shudder. Yeah, you remember those games. "And they had to scrape her off the map?"
"There's land mines under most of the terrain near the cornucopia," he says, nodding. "Since it wasn't much of a defensible position this year, no one is ever really there. Everyone is afraid of it, no one is in it. It was easy to sneak through and dig - most of the mines were less than a foot down. They disable when the countdown ends."
"Capitol probably wasn't betting on people like you finding them. On anyone finding them. Or using them properly."
"They weren't betting on the Iron Man," he says, and you smile, stare down at your work so he can't see.
He probably has the steadiest hands in the world, you think as he rebinds the bandages on your chest. He never wavers when he picks apart the mines, when he helps you build things, when he gently replaces the various patches on your dirty skin. When you change night shift, his fingers slide over your shoulders as he passes you. On the nights when the hunger gets worse, you take to leaning on each other in front of the fire, staring at embers and saying nothing. Silence means something in close proximity.
On some level, his medical help is a sort of professional thing between the two of you. With most of the careers gone, you're officially the most competent fighter in the arena, and you've already chased away two wolf packs and a tribute who got a little too close to the mouth of the cave. You protect the cave and tell him what needs to get done - he cleans your wounds and does what you ask for. But it's something more than that, now. He could kill you easily, but you trust him to touch you, to heal you.
Help comes on a parachute. One of your sponsors sent a thermos of soup - at the beginning of the game, you would've snuck away and eaten it yourself. You split it equally in two. Survival looks more possible. Both of you sleep easier.
"You have any family, Yinsen?" You are close to finished with the mines, which means your time actually in Yinsen's presence grows thin. Questions grow a little more personal now.
"Yes," he says, smiles, "my parents, three sisters. If I win the games, they will never be hungry again. And you, Stark?" He glances up at you. "Do you have a family up in District 1?"
You stare at him for a second, look back down, shake your head. "Nah. I…there was my dad, but he died before the reaping, and anyway, we…we weren't close."
He nods, slowly. "So you are the tribute who has everything," he says quietly, "and nothing."
You cannot think of anything to say.
"Now hold on. Some of you may be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you need something desperately. Each of you will find that something in a backpack marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia, at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this may be your last chance."
Yinsen stares at you. You stare at Yinsen. "What do we need desperately?" He asks. "Food?"
"Everyone needs food," you say, shrugging. "The feast is at dawn tomorrow, at the cornucopia, and now we know where to plant our mines. Don't worry about what the Capitol wants us to think we need - we could finish the games in a morning." You flex the fingers of your metal arm, stare at the circle at the palm. "Remember the plan," you warn, "you stay back, out of sight, and anyone we can't take out with the mines, I can take out with my arm."
You both glance to the blackened dent in the cave wall where you practiced aiming with your arm yesterday. Yinsen sighs through his nose, slowly. Everything he does now is slow, calculated - like he's desperate not to waste energy through movement. "I am a little afraid to see what that would do to a human," he says carefully.
"Me too," you admit, quietly. His palm rests on your shoulder.
"Let's go," he says. You nod.
Setting the trap goes okay - it's coming back from the trap when everything goes to shit.
He's leaning on you for most of the walk back towards the cave - you use one arm to hold your personal heart transplant and the other to support him. It's a good thing you're quiet, because it means you can hear the sounds coming from inside the cave, and slink away before you're seen.
"Jesus," you hiss to him from behind a tree, "we're out for an hour and someone swoops in on our base. Well, I'm dry. Got any ideas?"
Yinsen is staring towards the cave entrance, brow furrowed. "Stark," he whispers, "what was that part you needed for fuel? To make your arm work? Where is it?"
"It's…oh. Shit." Your face falls. "It's still in there. Okay. We need a new plan. What's the likelihood they're all going to go to the feast?"
"Stark," he says, quietly, "I'm going to draw them away. Go in, get the thing for your arm, come save me."
"What?"
"There's only three," he goes on, urgently, "and other than us, there's only those three and two stragglers. They won't feel safe enough to only send one or two after me. I'll lead them to the feast if I have to." He stares up at you for a second, then slips out from under your arm, and, on unsteady legs, stumbles towards the cave mouth, crossbow in hand.
"Yinsen!" You hiss after him. "Stick to the plan!"
"There is no plan, Stark," he hisses back, and then cries out, "Hey, District 5!" And fires a bolt straight into the light.
You think maybe you should be concerned about how good Yinsen is about pulling negative attention towards him, or maybe where he found the strength to run as fast as he does, or even why the new cave-dwellers are so eager to fall into such an obvious trap, but you don't have the time to think about any of those things. They run out of the cave, and you swoop in behind them, quiet as you can on metal legs, rummage around in the pile of metal scraps it was hidden in. Find ammo. Reload. Pop open the slot on your wrist and jam the little cylinder in as fast as you can - three shots, at most, more than you need - scramble to your feet, and whirl around to see another tribute, three feet from you, spear raised. You're not sure if she was hiding in here the whole time or if she followed you in, but she's on the swing back, and you have no weapons. You raise your palm to her and slam your other hand against your forearm.
She splatters against the wall grotesquely. You breathe hard, fall back on your ass, resist the urge to vomit - there's no food in your stomach to get rid of, anyway. Shake. Stare at the land mine in your arms. You have to go save him - he's in trouble - he's your ward - you protect him - but your legs will not move. Not until you hear the explosion and the cannon fire ringing in your ears.
Yinsen.
"Yinsen!" You scream, and bolt after him.
He is still alive when you find him. You wish he wasn't. Not much remains of his body, and what does is broken and bruised. He wheezes badly when he breathes. You have passed the remains of three corpses, you think - though it's hard to tell, and you hardly bothered counting. You pull him into a sitting position, and he coughs, blinks up at you.
"Didn't realize…how big the blast radius would be," he wheezes, "thought I cleared it."
"It's okay, that doesn't matter," you say, stumbling through your own words, "you're gonna be okay, you're gonna live, you're gonna get out of this alive with me, okay?"
"Only one of us can leave, Stark," he says slowly, "it was never going to be me."
"Come on, don't talk like that," you say. Your face is hot and your throat is tightening around your words, "what about your family, huh? Come on. You'll be the first victor from District 12 in twenty-five years and your family's gonna eat, they're gonna be so proud of you."
"My family is dead, Stark. I'm from the Seam. They starved to death years ago." Your heart stops. "It's okay. I am going to see them now. This was always the plan."
You shake your head dumbly. Your lips shake as you try to get words out. "Why did you save my life? Why didn't you just kill me?"
"That boy loved you," he whispers, coughs. "Don't waste it. Don't…don't waste your life."
You wait for him to say something else. A cannon fires above you instead.
Something in you won't let you let go of him. Like Gilgamesh of old, you hold him, lift him in your arms, carry him to the center of the arena. Like Gilgamesh of old, you bury your face in your hands and weep. And like Gilgamesh of old, now that your friend's body lays in your arms, you can kill without remorse, without blinking, without thought.
You win the games with tears mingling with your sweat and blood and the dirt of the ground. You are your own legacy - not Howard Stark's son, but Tony Stark, the Iron Man, with the last person you loved dead in your arms.
Sex is easy. Take attractive woman home, fuck, and when she falls asleep, pull yourself away from her, get dressed, leave a note on the door, lock yourself in the basement until she's gone. It doesn't mean anything. Sex doesn't ever mean anything - it's just heat and friction and chemicals. It's not real.
You don't sleep anymore. You work. Long hours into the night, day after day, pushing yourself until you fall off your chair and wake up on the floor hours later. Nights pass easier when you don't dream. When you do, you dream about the boy you left behind and the man who saved your life, and it feels like you are drowning.
He told you not to waste your life. You don't know how to fix it. God, if you had money or if you were from the Capitol, if you had an industry or a business or something, maybe you could fix things, maybe you could help people or protect them, or...
Yinsen died because you couldn't protect him, and it fucking destroys you. It is easier to only care about yourself. You can protect yourself.
Pepper Potts can protect herself, too. In fact, she can destroy people without your help, without a weapon, probably without even trying. You watch, in stupefied awe, as she sets the rest of the tributes on each other like wild dogs fighting over a link of meat. You bet on her. You make tons of money off of it, too.
She is beautiful and stark and entirely humorless about your attempts to woo her, eyes set directly forward in her head. You think you're in love, and it scares the shit out of you. Quite possibly, she's even smarter than you are - you're never sure if your thoughts are your own when you're around her, or if she planted them in your head herself days ago. Weeks ago. Months ago. She's the queen of inception, and you are terrified of her, and you want to hold her in your arms and protect her from the harsh winds, and do nothing else at all.
It takes you ten years to ask her to marry you. The idea of loving her is something foreign and unwelcome, but it is petulant and insistent and it grows every time you see her flip her hair over her shoulder. It takes you ten years too long to realize that you need her in your life.
Slowly, you relearn closeness. You learn how to trust someone with yourself, how to fall asleep wrapped around her, how to hold her hand and not feel like you have to say anything at all. You learn how to be quiet. And, you think, she loves you back.