Summary: "Of course I'm going to break him. They need to see him break. They'll never accept him as a hero and a leader if they haven't seen him crawl from the lowest place he can possibly fall. Once they see that they'll be no stopping him. Anything he says they'll be falling over themselves to listen to." All it takes is a nudge. Director Fury, Pawn to D6.
The rain stood between them like a wall of water. Behind it Loki stalked back and forth, a cat eyeing its prey, slashing at the ground with his sword so that sparks danced before being extinguished by the storm.
"Greetings, brother!" Loki shouted above the gale. "How did you find my gifts? I hope you liked them, as I made them especially with you in mind."
Thor forced a growl from his throat, glad for the rain coursing down his face as it mingled with the hot, salty tracks that would otherwise mark him as too weak to survive. "Have you gone mad?" Thor called back. He did not put away his hammer, holding it at his side in a defensive position. "There are lines, brother! Even in the Hunger Games, you have gone too far. The tributes' bodies are not objects for your sport! Have you no respect for their sacrifice?"
"Ever the good little soldier." Loki grinned at him, his face a death's head mask, his dark hair soaked and plastered to his forehead. "Always so willing to pretend you play by the rules. They don't know, do you, how quickly you used to cast them aside when it suited your purpose? The oldest son of Odin, above it all. You play their obedient servant, but I know the truth. I, the mischief-maker, the liesmith, and yet you were always at my side playing tricks with me. The only difference is that your blood acquitted you of every crime for which I stand accused!"
"That is not so!" Thor retorted. "I was punished along with you when our crimes were naught but pranks. It was only later, when you allowed yourself to be taken with obsession, with this sick jealousy, that you alone were singled out."
"Is that so," Loki said, his voce low and dark, rasping in his throat, and Thor thought there must be some trick of the wind, some machination of the Gamemakers that the storm could rage so yet Thor still overhear. It would not be beyond them. "Oh how little you know, brother. How blind you are, how blind you allow yourself to be so that you might sleep at night."
Thor's first memories include cameras, Father's hand on his shoulder, fingers tight, reminding him to smile, to stand up straight, to look tall and proud and do his district just service. As a young boy, he and Father used to play at camera angles, with Father pointing out imaginary lenses in their living room and telling him to play through a scene while turning himself to the best advantage. Thor could no more forget the presence of cameras in the Arena now than he could lose the perception of his own limbs.
He did not forget now. What Thor did was stop caring.
Thor cast aside the image of Brutus, standing behind him with a look of warning; his district, his father, everything about him as a representative of Two and all it stood for. He held out one hand, the rain at such driving force that his fingers blurred in his vision even at this distance. "Loki!" Thor called. "Whatever wrongs I have done beyond the ones I acknowledge, accept, and attempt to atone for, please allow me to do right by them. Don't let this end in hate."
"Oh, but it is too late for that." Loki smiled at him, his mouth tight and grim, teeth hidden. "Far too late, I'm afraid. Why don't you tell those watching what happened when I left you? How you dusted off your clothes and forgot your brother, the boy brought to your home as a child and raised ever in your shadow, how you condemned him to a life and death in the cold, black dust of District Twelve? Tell them all, and let them see their hero."
"You are wrong!" Thor nearly screamed. "You speak madness, Loki! You speak as though I did not mourn. You speak as though I did not spend days alone in my room, weeping for you, for everything between us that you - not I! - cast aside. As though they did not have to threaten me with expulsion, before I turned my pain into motivation to train lest I run mad from grief myself."
In truth, Thor remembered very little of the days following Loki's departure. The entire time had been nothing but a wash of grief, until Director Fury himself had come to Thor's room, laid a hand on his shoulder and reminded him of his duty, that he must carry out his responsibilities as chosen Volunteer. Each night he'd dreamt of Loki in a thousand permutations, and whether they ended in Loki's death at the hands of a pack of muttations or Thor's own successful bid to convince him to stay, either way Thor woke with screams, soaked with sweat and shaking.
"I weep for you," Loki drawled. "Truly, your pain is an inspiration. The noble sufferer, driven to distraction by his insane relative. How lucky for you that we are not of blood, so that you might distance yourself from me."
"Never!" Thor shouted, and only when Loki flashed his teeth did Thor realize what he had done. Yet again he had allied himself with the traitor, driving the wedge between himself and his district, and Thor cursed under his breath. "I will never distance myself from you," Thor said, mind racing, and he could fix this. He could. "I will be with you to the end, my brother."
"Oho. And what, exactly does that entail?" Loki ignored the rain lashing at his clothing, even though he had not received any gifts of warmer gear as Thor had after the destruction of his cloak, and he must be freezing. Loki's childhood in Twelve had always rendered him susceptible to illness, though of course he was loathe to admit it. "Will you let me kill you, then, and finish the path I have begun? Give me the ultimate victory so I might take your place as the favoured Odinson?"
"No," Thor countered, for of course he could not. Whatever remained of Loki now, of the little boy who had laid intricate traps down by the river to catch frogs and snakes but who had never, ever hurt them, choosing instead to speak with them and insist he understood them before letting them free, he did not stand before Thor now. That boy was gone, and the least Thor owed his memory was that the monster who had slain him did not walk free.
If anything of Loki did survive, buried deep in this well of insanity, the miasma of twisted thoughts, Thor would find it, draw it out so that Loki might remember himself before the end, but Thor knew his duty. Not just as a tribute, as a representative of District Two, but as a brother.
"No," Thor cried, drawing himself up straight and proud. "I will find you, and I will kill you with my own hand, as is just and proper. An Odinson to end an Odinson, and all will be restored."
Lightning crashed overhead, and Thor flung an arm in front of his eyes to shield them from the glare. Through the tearing and howling of the wind came the high-pitched note of a silver parachute, and when Thor looked again, a hammer stood at his feet. Not the one he carried with him, crude and cheaply manufactured, meant for anyone who might be bold enough to enter the Cornucopia; this one was large, and heavy, with an intricate design carved into the side.
Loki bared his teeth in fury; as the gods had spoken; Thor was in favour, and this gift was meant to remind everyone of that. The ending of the game was foreordained, though of course it was up to Thor to see it done, but Loki was not meant to win it, and now he knew. He knew the truth, the bitter futility of his own actions.
Thor bent, turned over a small capsule next to the hammer with his foot. A light projection message flashed, as the storm was too great for him to read anything printed with ink upon paper. "THIS HAMMER IS CODED WITH THE BIOMETRIC DATA FROM THE MALE TRIBUTE OF DISTRICT TWO", it read. "NO ONE ELSE MAY WIELD IT UNLESS THEY PROVE THEMSELVES WORTHY."
A tingle ran through his fingers as Thor curled them around the hammer; for a moment it resisted him, remaining stubbornly affixed to the ground, but after the current passed, the weapon became light enough for him to lift while still having enough weight that it did not feel like a toy or prop. Thor hefted it, still feeling the twinge of energy running up his forearm, and out of instinct he raised his arm high.
The lightning in the sky surged and crackled, raising the very hair on his body, and then it travelled down, fast and terrifying, but Thor did not allow himself to flinch. The bolt struck the hammer but it did not throw him back; the weapon absorbed the electricity, and Thor lowered his stance, swung his arm and thrust the hammer forward. The lightning flew out of the top of the hammer toward Loki, knocking him backward. Thor's breath caught in his chest, heart pounding, but in the dimness he saw Loki struggle to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
"Heed my warning, brother!" Thor called through the pouring rain. "It is I who will take your life, and I will hold you as the last breath passes from your body."
Loki snarled, but the power of this exchange was not with him, not anymore. Thor would feel heady with it save that it meant the death of his brother, writ as plain and clear across the heavens as though Thor had done so with the lightning now under his command. "You are too certain," Loki spat, and he turned and fled into the darkness.
Thor stood in the middle of the street until the rain stopped, the sun breaking through the black clouds. He half expected birds to twitter, but of course it was not time for that, not yet. He let out a long breath, gave the nearest camera a meaningful, long look, then hitched the new hammer to his belt and strode off down a side street.
He left the old hammer there, upended on the cement, and did not look back.
Coulson straightened his spine and prepared for his least favourite part of the job: questioning Director Fury. Fury stood with his back to the door in front of the various televisions, flicking footage around from screen to screen with his fingers. On one, Tony Stark trudged through the streets with furious determination etched into his features; Coulson had watched him murder his creations, and he didn't like the chances of anyone who might run into Stark in the next little while. On another, little Ororo Munroe crept across a rooftop to where she'd managed to trap a pigeon in a handmade snare; she snapped its neck with her delicate hands and took out a tinderbox from her pack to cook it. Coulson made a mental note to add parasite treatment to the escapees.
"Do you need something?" Fury asked without turning.
Coulson rolled his shoulders, settling his jacket properly along his arms. "I think you're taking a risk with Rogers, sir."
Fury tilted his head back, but not far enough to make eye contact. "What is it they say about omelettes, Coulson?"
"I don't eat omelettes, sir," Coulson said smoothly. "I'm watching my cholesterol. I'm sure you know what you're doing, but I'm afraid you're going to break him. First Stark with his - well, his children - and now this?"
"Of course I'm going to break him," Fury said, and Coulson fought down a grimace. "They need to see him break. They'll never accept him as a hero and a leader if they haven't seen him crawl from the lowest place he can possibly fall. Once they see that they'll be no stopping him. Anything he says they'll be falling over themselves to listen to."
Coulson ran his tongue over his teeth, choosing his words with care. "Sir. With all due respect, I'm not sure Rogers is strong enough. He's had one motivation since he stepped forward in that square; I'm not sure it's wise to take that away. I don't think he's ready. The Rebellion isn't enough for him, not yet, at least not as a suitable replacement at this juncture."
"We have to take that chance," Fury said, and he clasped his hands together behind his back hard enough that his knuckles cracked. "They don't need untouchables, Phil. You know that."
Coulson remained still, though his respectful smile was a little thinner than it should be. Fortunately Fury's gaze was still on the screens. "And if he can't put himself back together? If none of them can? You're pushing them too far. They're children, all of them."
"Then they aren't the Mockingjays we were looking for, never mind the Avengers," Fury said, and finally he turned around, fixing Coulson with a disapproving one-eyed stare. "This isn't playtime. This is war. We've come too far to worry about safety, but I have faith. I don't think we're going to lose any of them."
"If you say so, sir." Coulson searched the screens for Rogers, who'd survived the deluge along with the rest, and stood gasping in an alleyway with one of the little girls held tight against his chest. Coulson wet his lips. "There's still time to call it off."
Fury looked back at the screens and shook his head. "No. I'm afraid there's not."
"And who's going to be there to pick up the pieces once he loses it? You're building a team for a reason; you know he can't do it on his own."
Fury reached up, skimmed his fingers over the screen and brought up the image of Tony Stark in full view. With another hand gesture he brought up Sam Wilson, the boy from Eleven, struggling to clamber out from the subway and onto the street.
Coulson hissed. "You're joking. The narcissist and the bird-lover? You really think they're going to reach him?"
"I'm deadly serious."
This time Coulson risked a posture change, clasping his hands together in front of his body instead, moving his feet to a shoulder-wide stance so he could shift his weight without it looking insubordinate. "I hope you're right, sir."
Fury let out a long breath. "You have no idea."
Sam heaved himself over the lip of the maintenance tunnel, choking and gasping, but he didn't stop to take a breath, not yet. He clung to a railing next to the hole, sucking in lungfuls of air as best he could while dragging up until Jean's head broke the surface. Her head lolled back against his arm, and Sam pulled himself out onto the cement, rolling himself over onto his back and hauling Jean out by body weight alone.
"C'mon," Sam said, turning her onto her side because that seemed to make the most sense, even though he had absolutely no idea about this sort of thing for real. "C'mon, Jean, c'mon."
They should have taken the hint when the Gamemakers sent the mutts after them, but Sam had let himself get cocky when they beat that little test. Any cameras watching would have picked up on their plucky determination, bumping their approval ratings and maybe their scores, but in the end it was the Gamemakers who decided, not the audience, not without a more compelling reason to let this go. Fury said he would get them out, but apparently that didn't preclude them getting too confident and baiting the powers that be into trying to kill them.
At least there was no way to flood an entire subway system at once without warning; the roar of the water, echoing off the walls, had alerted Sam and Jean enough that they'd made it almost to the stairs before it hit them. They'd been halfway up the steps when that exit flooded from above, knocking them back into the tunnel. Sam had managed to keep his grip on Jean as the water buffeted them against the walls, but he'd lost their packs and one of his swords. He kept the other against his side, pinned between him and Jean, only aware that he still had it because it jabbed into his thigh. Finally he'd caught a rung on the ceiling and held on until the surge passed, his arms burning, and at last Sam managed to hook his arm through, hold on by the crook of his elbow and push the hatch open before dragging both of them out.
Jean had been underwater for that last - Sam couldn't open the hatch and keep her head up at the same time - and now he felt panic beat in his chest as she lay on the damp concrete. Sam had never seen more water in one place than a rain puddle and had no training or instruction about clearing water from anyone's lungs. He shook her shoulder a little, and was about to start pleading with the sponsors - not likely after they'd nearly been killed - when Jean coughed and sputtered, vomiting out mouthfuls of rainwater.
Sam helped her sit, leaning forward, and rubbed her back as she hacked the rest of the water out. "Thanks," Jean said, reaching out blindly until her hand found his arm. "Next time I'll drag you out of danger. Even the score." She ran a hand through her sopping hair. "Any idea now?"
"I've been thinking about that," Sam said. "I think we should try to look for some of the others. Maybe Rogers, he seemed like he was the alliance type if we could prove we're not going to try to stab him in his sleep."
"With what?" Jean asked, waving a hand, and Sam realized he'd lost the second sword when he pulled them out. With what indeed. "If anything, it'll be hard to convince him to take on a couple of half-drowned deadweights with nothing to offer."
"Better him than Stark," Sam pointed out, and Jean shrugged. "Rogers is a bleeding heart. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. And we could use the team-up right now."
"Hey, I'm not saying we don't," Jean said, grimacing. "We've lost all the stuff we brought with us and you're bleeding. Just that I don't think we bring much to the table on our side."
"Manpower," Sam said stubbornly. "Two more people to help look for food or keep watch or whatever else. And he can help me look for Ororo."
Jean frowned. "Who? Oh, the girl from your district. You think she's still alive? Or Rogers, for that matter."
It was a callous thing to ask, but Sam couldn't exactly blame her, not when he'd lost track not only of who was left but how many days had passed while underground. "The others will know," Sam said. "They'll be keeping track. Find Rogers. He'll be easier than Ororo, she was going to hide."
"We're going to have a real party, aren't we," Jean said, but she didn't argue with him. "All right then, let's go looking and try not to run into anybody who's likely to stab us in the head."
"Are you all right to walk?" Sam asked, but Jean waved off his hand.
"I'm fine," she said, taking a long breath, and it rattled a little in her lungs but otherwise came out clean. "Can't kill me, apparently. They just keep trying and I keep coming back. Maybe it's my superpower."
Sam hadn't specified Jean as one of the children - she looked about fourteen, maybe - but he hoped Fury included her in the list of people to save. Either way, Sam had added her to the list. If he could just find Ororo and know she was safe, he'd feel much better about everyone's chances.
They wandered through the Arena, and Sam tried not to be too disturbed by the emptiness of the streets. He decided to take it as everyone going into hiding after whatever storm had hit - mud and water eddied around his boots, torn newspapers floating down the sidewalk and sticking to his ankles - and not that most everyone had already been killed. That would mean good odds in a normal Games, sure, but this wasn't one of those. Sam couldn't imagine what sort of victory for the rebellion it would be if only one or two of their heroes crawled out.
Or what Fury had planned for the whole scheme afterward, for that matter, but at least Sam could see Redbird again. If anyone tried to renege on that promise, he'd like to see them try to hold him.
"I don't like this at all," Jean said in a low voice. "You know how it's cliche to say that it's too quiet because then some crazy person jumps out with a knife and kills you? Well, it's too quiet."
Sam tensed, but the only thing that happened was that an empty food wrapper, caught by the wind and swept down the street, slapped wetly against Sam's knee. Even that startled him enough to jump. "Well played," he said to Jean, punching her lightly on the shoulder, and she gave him a nervous grin.
The next second, someone started screaming. Suddenly glad for having misplaced his swords because it meant he couldn't now accidentally stab himself or chop Jean's head off when he jumped and whirled around, Sam pressed himself against the closest building, the large barred window marking it a pawn shop. "It's down the street," he said in a hiss. "We should go before whoever did it comes after us."
"Wait." Jean gripped his sleeve. "That's not a death scream. Somebody's hurting, but not because they got stuck with a sword."
Sam stopped and listened again, and this time he recognized the sound. He knew it from the dozen previous Games he'd watched; from the day that his neighbour Jimmy Webster had been whipped to death for stealing a basket of fruit to feed his ailing mother, who was handed his corpse while the blood still oozed from the lacerations on his back; from his own mouth when his father was gunned down.
This was the sound of pain, all right, but of heartbreak, not physical injury. Jean let out a breath. "What do we do?"
The screaming continued, long after anyone with rational thought would have stopped. "Whoever it is, they're going to get killed if they don't stop," Sam said. He did the math; it was a male voice, and since that probably ruled out the Careers and the terrifying boy from Nine, that left either Rogers, Stark, or the boy from Five. Sam couldn't imagine Stark yelling like that over anything, so that at least narrowed it down. It wasn't certain, but it made good enough odds that Sam felt willing to risk it. "I say we go check. Worst-case scenario, they try to kill us and we run. It's not like that will be a surprise if they do."
Finally the sounds stopped, replaced instead with conversation too quiet to overhear and almost not loud enough to catch at all. Two people, then, which meant at least a temporary alliance, hopefully not one that would stab them. "Let's go," Sam said.
Sam edged his way down the street, keeping Jean behind him just in case. They made it to the crossroad when Sam nearly ran into a young girl. He felt bad about not remembering her district - dark hair, pale skin, could be anyone really and he didn't have the presence of mind to do the math again when he couldn't recall all the girls in the first place - but it didn't really matter, because she held tightly to the hand of Steve Rogers.
"Truce," Sam said immediately. Rogers had red eyes and a tear-streaked face, the mark of insanity in the set of his jaw, and he went for the short sword at his waist before Sam spoke. "Look. No weapons." He held up his hands, and beside him Jean did the same.
"Steve," said the girl, her fingers curled around his wrist. "Steve, it's okay."
Rogers' chest heaved, and he stared at Sam for several seconds before finally lowering his arm, holding it out to the side and spreading his hand wide. "Okay," he said. "Sorry. We're all a little jumpy."
"No kidding." Sam left his hands in front of him.
"Okay, look," Jean broke in. "Here's the thing. Our hiding place got flooded out, we lost all our stuff, and Sam stabbed himself in the leg because we've just got all the good luck. If you guys wouldn't mind giving us some food and bandages and somewhere to sleep, we promise to help you and not stick you with weapons."
Rogers looked at her, frowning, and his eyes focused as though he was only just noticing her. "Okay," he said again, and he gave Sam a strange look that Sam couldn't parse, eyes slightly narrowed and mouth set, but not in a way that made it look like he was plotting their deaths. Rogers nodded once. "Come with us then. I'll make your case to Bruce." He wiped at his eyes, and Sam wanted to look past him to whatever it was that had made him break down like that, but that didn't seem right.
"Hey, what's the largest non-Career alliance, does anyone know?" Jean asked, as they fell into step. "Pick up one or two more and I bet we've got it. We're probably close already. That has to be worth some sponsor money."
"Do you think about that a lot?" asked Rogers' companion - and finally Sam placed her, as the girl that the boy from Five had flung, literally, from the circle before the countdown finished.
"What, sponsor money? Yes." Jean gave her a dark look. "Not all of us get the golden boy as our best friends. No offence, Sam."
The girl curled her lip, Rogers didn't react, and Sam let out a burst of surprised laughter. "None taken," he said. "I know I don't have the sponsor pull. We got what we did because we're lucky."
The girl clenched her fists, and even Rogers gave them a slant-eyed glance. "Well we haven't got anything," she said, her voice shaking with anger. "Not me, not Bruce, and not Steve or Sharon either. So maybe it's not just about who looks good after all."
"Oh," Jean said, and Sam was starting to know her well enough to tell that she no longer offended or upset, just confused. "Really? I would've thought you'd got parachutes all over the place."
The other girl shrugged, and Rogers laid a hand on her shoulder. "If we understood how to game the system, we'd be doing it," he said, though Sam somewhat doubted that. Not unless he was a lot more devious than he looked. Even Sam probably wouldn't have gotten any parachutes if it hadn't been for Jean.
Not for the first time, Sam wondered what exactly Fury thought he was supposed to contribute to this rebellion, or why he'd even bothered bringing Sam in particular on board at all.
[TEN MINUTES EARLIER]
Steve heaved a sigh of relief as the rain let up, the first breath he'd taken that had not been alongside a mouthful of water since the freak storm began. He loosened his grip on Jenny, stepping back and lowering his arm from around her shoulders. "Are you all right?"
Jenny nodded. "I'm fine," she said, pushing her black hair out of her eyes. Steve had grabbed her when the wave of rain roared through the streets, running down side alleys to escape the flash flood with water at least three feet deep; when he could no longer outrun it he'd clung to the corroding metal of a fire escape and kept Jenny against his side with every ounce of strength he had. Steve had had his suspicions that the Remake Centre had done more than just help with his asthma, but no concrete proof until the wall of water buffeted him, trying to rip Jenny from his arms, and he'd been able to cling to her regardless. He only wondered what they wanted from him in return for such a gift.
Bruce would never have forgiven Steve if he'd let her go, and Steve didn't want to think what might happen to Sharon if he had. They'd agreed to change partners while looking for food, as a measure of security for them to stick together and not break the alliance. Steve hadn't managed to talk to him about Fury and the rebellion, not without tipping off the ever-present cameras, and so while he'd tried to hint with cryptic remarks, Bruce had not risen to the bait. Ah well.
"They were leading us here, I think," Jenny said, squeezing the last of the water droplets from her shirt, and Steve frowned down at her. "Why else? It's not like anything that happens here is random. Let's just hope it's not a trap."
Steve ran a hand through his hair, flicking it dry, and he glanced around. He knew his neighbourhood backwards and forwards, but here in the Arena he'd done his best not to map the familiar locations onto his mind map unless absolutely necessary. Even with walking every street since he was a boy, Steve still found it tricky to navigate when everything was empty of people and cars, with the signs shut down and the familiar glow of the city at night often cut off for hours at a time as the rolling blackouts swept the streets.
He looked at the crumbling buildings, the brown brick and cracked sidewalks, and the last of his breath whooshed from his lungs as if he'd been kicked. Steve felt the same panic he had on the platforms when he'd first recognized his surroundings, and now he swallowed it down with effort. "Let's hope not," he said, and he wiped his palms on his thighs. "I recognize this. At least - I think so."
"Where are we?" Jenny asked.
"My street," Steve said, and he gritted his teeth to stop himself from betraying any emotion. They had done this on purpose, leading him here in an attempt to break him, to remind him that they had all the cards and that Steve, for all his cleverness and heroism and friendships, was nothing but a piece in their game. Well, they didn't know about Fury, did they, and Steve would not let them get to him. "That's the pawnbroker where I bought my first set of drawing pencils, instead of just using pieces of charcoal from the fireplace and slate from the roof. Mr. Whittaker used to give deals to us orphan kids. Bucky got me a tin of watercolours for my sixteenth birthday from there, and it only cost him a wristwatch."
"Where did he get the wristwatch?" Jenny asked, slipping her hand into Steve's. Steve bent down and lifted her onto his shoulders, and while he wasn't as large as Bruce, he knew that before the Games she never would have fit, the skinny slope of his arms and back much too narrow for her. Over the past few weeks he'd been growing, and not just taller, either.
"He stole it," Steve said, and Jenny laughed. "I told him he shouldn't, but he said the man he took it from could buy another. He looked so happy when he gave them to me that I didn't want to argue. It's hard to say no to his smile. Always was."
He heard Tony's voice in his ear, reminding him not to give the Gamemakers anything personal, but Bucky was safe - he had to be, evacuated with the others, why wouldn't he be - and Steve needed to remind the people at home why he was here, whom he was fighting for.
"He sounds like a good friend," Jenny said.
"He is," Steve said, raising his chin. "The best. Not just mine, either, I dare anyone to find someone better. I always said I was going to find a good job and get him out of here, find us a place in a nicer part of town."
"It's not the prettiest city I ever seen," Jenny agreed, and Steve knew she'd come from one of the less-privileged parts of District Five so she had some idea. She wasn't one of the Capitol representatives who shrieked when they realized that no one had cell phone coverage outside of District Three, save for a few select locations in each district like around the Justice Buildings or anywhere that Snow's people might be working.
Steve stopped on the sidewalk, looking ahead and frowning. "That's not right. There's a building missing. Maybe this isn't my street after all-"
Except no, there was the car repair shop where Bucky worked after school, screwing on hubcaps and doing minor repairs under the supervision of the owner; and there was the 'park', a long stretch of empty concrete with a single pole where the local kids would bounce a ball and try to toss it through a loop of wire at the top of the post.
"What's missing?"
"The orphanage," Steve said, fighting to talk around the stone now lodged in his throat. His pulse kicked up, pounding in his temples, and he ran forward, skirting the open manhole cover that looked down into the flooded subway, where the water still raged beneath.
"Your orphanage?"
"Yes."
Steve stopped, his breath coming short as his body tried to kick itself into an asthma attack despite its now functioning lungs. He bent forward and Jenny scrambled down from his shoulders, laid a hand against Steve's arm as he pressed his hands to his knees and choked on his own fear.
The fence was there, the iron bars as straight and forbidding as ever - meant more to keep the drug addicts out than the children in, but still not a happy sight when you were a kid on the other side of them - but beyond, nothing but a pile of rubble. Steve straightened up, forced himself to look, and in the slowly-increasing sunlight he saw black scorch marks against the pieces of brick and shattered glass.
"Did - did they burn it down?" Jenny asked, her voice high, but it didn't tremble. Steve would be proud of her if he could get enough brainpower away from the urge to scream.
Steve pushed against the gate - it swung open with a creak of hinges despite never, ever being left unlocked, not since Steve could remember - and stepped through. Even with the smell of rain still lingering on the wet cement, Steve could smell it, the grit and ash of the fire, and something else, too, sharp and sickly, burning his nostrils and the back of his throat.
"No," he said to himself, then whirled around. "Jenny, stay back! Don't come closer unless I tell you. Keep your eyes closed."
Jenny did, her mouth set, and she clung to the gate for balance and safety while Steve walked forward, the weight of dread sitting on his feet and making every step as hard as walking through the mud with iron boots. His chest ached, his heart pounding faster than it had even as the countdown wound its way to zero.
He reached the pile of broken brick, and Steve prayed that he was wrong, prayed to the God that Sister Catherine had taught them about in secret, the one that not even President Snow could erase from the world even if he'd erased Him from the history books. He clenched his fists and pushed aside a scattering of stone with his shoe.
Bleached white fragments rolled down and stopped with a clatter at his feet. "No," Steve said again, louder and more desperate, and he dropped to his knees. He pushed aside the blackened mortar, and as he dug he found more and more. Some of the pieces were too small for him to identify, licked clean by the flames and crushed by falling cement, but others still had scraps of fabric and bits of flesh stuck to them.
Steve stopped when he couldn't deny it anymore, when his hand closed around a child's femur, half the size of his forearm, and he turned and vomited into the dust and grime. The sharp scent stung his nose and he breathed it in, the tang of bile better than what he knew he'd find if he kept digging.
He pushed aside a twisted lump of metal that had once been a radiator, found another mangled mess with tatters of black cloth; caught on a lump of what he guessed was spinal column was a loop of cord threaded with beads and two small pieces of metal, pinned perpendicular to one another.
Steve gasped, tasting salt, and he swiped his sleeve across his eyes and nose to little effect. "No," he said again, and he wanted to say more, so much more, to scream and curse and wail, but all other words left him. "No!" His hand found the pin on his lapel, the small circle of metal painted red, white and blue by a hand that could now be somewhere in the mess of brick and bodies in front of him.
Finally, Steve found another word.
"Why?" It tore itself from him, and Steve screamed it again and again, leaning back and looking up at the sky, past the sky to the net the Gamemakers had cast over the Arena, where they projected their Capitol logo and death toll every evening. He screamed it until there was nothing left of him but that question; demanded it of the Gamemakers, of the Capitol, of Director Fury and his broken promises, of Sister Catherine whose soul now either rotted in her body or rested with the God who hadn't cared enough to keep her safe.
Finally Steve climbed to his feet, swiping his arm across his eyes, and that's when he saw it, hanging deliberately on a strut of metal sticking up out of the debris. A bracelet, a chain with a red star pendant hanging from it, the whole thing fashioned out of cheap metal. Bucky's bracelet, the one he'd made because the Careers from District Two had bracelets to mark them as Volunteers and it had been part of their game. It was half-melted and scorched black, but Steve recognized it anyway. The fact that they'd left it up for him to find, instead of leaving it in the rubble for him to miss only made it clear.
"Bucky-" Steve sobbed. Director Fury had promised to keep Bucky safe from the Reapings, but that was easy enough to do since he was dead, burned alive with all the others. "Bucky, I'm so sorry-"
"Steve." Jenny touched his shoulder, and Steve shook her off with a rough gesture. "Steve! Steve, we have to go. We can't stay here."
"I promised him," Steve choked out. "I promised him I'd come back. I volunteered to keep him safe."
"He knows," Jenny said, her hand finding his arm and gripping his sleeve. "He wouldn't blame you, not if he's the kind of friend you said he is."
He probably wouldn't, but that only made it worse. Steve could almost see Bucky standing in front of him - the Gamemakers could do that even, make a hologram to taunt Steve, and he hoped they wouldn't because he might just go insane after all - see the cocky grin on the young boy's face.
"We have to leave," Jenny said again, insistent, and Steve allowed her to pull him to his feet, staggering back away from the carnage. "Let's go back to the rendezvous point."
Steve knew he should be strong for Jenny, but he cried anyway. Even as he did, he made up his mind. Fury would have to win this rebellion without him. Steve would get the others out - he had to, now, had to save them, Sharon and Jenny and anyone else who was left - but he wouldn't leave. He'd stay here with Bucky, the streets of their childhood neighbourhood a fitting tomb for the both of them.
When the others arrived, Steve answered them as perfunctorily as he could and took them with him as he went back to find Bruce. Good. The more people to help, the better, and the easier Steve could enact his plan, whenever he figured out what it was. Fury wanted a saviour; Steve hoped he would settle for a martyr, because that was the best he was going to get from Steve now.
