Thanks for your reviews as always.

Previously

Constantine hit the metal door so hard it rattled and bent. The hinges groaned and twisted, their shriek piercing through the boy's shout of pure rage. They didn't break.

They were trapped inside.

Fife slid her arms under Mags' and gently tugged her upwards. The warm contact was like a beacon in the fog. Mags grit her teeth. She willed herself to focus and to shake off the despair clawing at her. The odds were against them but all was not lost, yet. She wouldn't give up. Not now, not ever. With Fife's help, she stood up and forced her chin up.

"Don't break your hand, Constantine," Mags said before he injured himself.

Constantine reluctantly moved back. Had eyes been weapons, he would have melted the door to sludge.

"Would shooting any part of it help? Around the hinges…I don't know," Mags said, as she saw Fife pull her gun out. She found peculiar that Fife would be the calmest among them, acting skills aside.

Constantine shook his head. "Ten bullets won't suffice."

Fife then turned to Cresyl and slowly lifted the weapon. She moved up to him and wrapped a scarf loosely around his mouth. "Either you spill about how you know Mags or you're dead."

Cresyl's glare showed exactly how seriously he took that threat.

A tight smile drew itself on Fife's lips. "Did they mention who killed Ashlar? Did they mention how long I hesitated?"

The man stiffened, fear flooding his dark eyes. When he shook his head again, there was no mockery left, just resignation and… self-loathing? Mags crossed her arms. Had he grown fond of the rebels he had lied to all these years?

Fife's expression filled with pity and for a second, Mags was certain she would shoot. Instead the girl's smile melted into something sadder, and truer. "I'm from Nine, Cresyl, we have storerooms like this one. There are only ladders leading to the seventh and eighth undergrounds yet the things stored here are big and heavy. If there is no lift behind this stockpiled mess, the engineers truly were morons. This is your only chance to buy time."

Mags suddenly felt like smashing her head against the wall. She'd been a hair's breadth away from having a heart attack when they still had a good chance of making it out. She couldn't handle any more shocks like that.

"Next time, mention stuff like that, Fife," she said hoarsely. No wonder the girl hadn't panicked.

Fife shot her a quizzical glance. "Wasn't it obvious? I didn't just choose this room because it was cozy."

Mags was torn between sitting back down in sheer relief and hitting Fife.

"We didn't all grow up in District Nine," Constantine pointed out in clipped tones.

An impish grin lit Fife's face. "Lucky I did then."

Mags weakly grinned back. Some warmth flooded back through her veins. They had a way out. They could warn the rebels.

"No answers, Cresyl? Then we find the lift, wake Keane up, shoot this guy and go," Fife said, her voice only slightly breaking at the shooting part. Her face was blank again, set in an impenetrable mask.

Constantine moved towards the crates with the torchlight. He pushed a pile of metal rods off the nearest one and grabbed the top of the crate with his good hand, obviously intent on climbing the crate to get a better view of the room they were in.

A moan reached Mags' ears. She turned to Keane, relieved he'd finally regained his senses. Usually people were back up within a minute or two. The boy shook himself awake but didn't even sit up. He shot them a confused look. "What happened?"

"You lost it, tried to kill Cresyl and then almost bit Constantine's hand off. I knocked you out," Mags said with an embarrassed smile.

A groan escaped Keane's lips. "Sorry, man." He let himself drop back against the floor and tucked his knees under his chin, squeezing his eyes shut. "Forget me, just do whatever you have to do and wake me up when you leave."

"I promise," Mags said. From Fife's expression, she thought Keane had lost his mind. Mags wondered instead when the poor boy had last slept.

Mags joined Constantine on the top of his crate and wiped her tired eyes in dismay. The room was bigger than what she had thought, maybe even forty feet across, and it was packed with stuff, often up to the ceiling. Some corners seemed to have been ransacked because cords, wires, sheets made one huge bundle on the floor.

She had barely begun to force her way towards the nearest wall before Fife's whistle cut her short.

"He's ready to talk," Fife said with a tight smile.

Mags blinked. What could Fife have said to change Cresyl's mind? Her heart clenched as she past Keane's curled up form. He was already asleep. The Games had sucked him dry.

Cresyl shook his head, his lips curled in a wry sneer. "I doubt this tale will make any of us happier…. Almost eleven years ago, in mid-November… It was the first cloudless day in weeks and there was only one major railway left connecting Four to the Capitol. Fourteen tracks, one huge station, ten miles from Land's End." His voice slowly grew raw with bitterness and fury. "A station then guarded by a squad of peacekeepers and two patrolling hovercrafts."

Ten minutes won't make any difference, Mags told herself. She had to know. If she or her father were indirectly the reason the Citadel had a spy amongst them, she had to know what they had done. She stared at him, straining her memory. A train station… she had seen so many.

"A station with a dark blue slanted roof painted to look like tiles, with tags of big-breasted sirens and colored pearls on the walls," Cresyl elaborated, his eyes lost in the distance.

Mags paled as the fog in her mind dissipated to reveal long buried memories.

"Look at those massive boobs!" Eleven year old Lazuli said, his mouth hanging open.

His father slapped his outstretched arm down, his lips twitching. "Stop drooling or you'll go live with Aunt Angelites."

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad," his wife muttered.

Mags frowned, Cousin Lazuli was too big not to fight, everybody big enough had to fight. But Mags was too distracted by the naked sirens to ask her aunt about her words. She hadn't known people were allowed to paint stuff like that. It was gross.

Blushing, Lazuli cleared his throat. "Can't we send the signal now? We got the 'crafts, we're clear."

"No, Lazu," Mags said with a loud huff, her hands set on her small hips, "we have to wait until the train passes the second barrier right there!"

Her dad put a warm hand on her head. "Thank goodness someone is paying attention."

A proud smile lit Mags' face. Her heart was pounding real hard: the ground was shaking. The train was close.

"Uncle Jasper," Ebony called.

Mags' two eldest cousins, Ebony and Freya, had binoculars riveted on the railway station.

"There are people in there. We can't give the signal. It's not their fault for being there, it's their house," Ebony was speaking so fast Mags struggled to make sense of her words, "and one has binoculars too. He saw us, he knows we're here."

"Then we must hurry! If we don't stop the Capitol from sending weapons, they'll have the whole of Four backed against the coast. Thousands will die. If they're true rebels they'll understand," Freya said, her voice cold.

Ebony threw the binoculars to the floor. "I hate this, why do you make me do this?"

Mags walked up to her and grabbed her hand. She hated to see her cousin sad. "'Cause we want to live free and better? If we don't fight then the Capitol wins. It's their fault for being so evil that we must blow up trains."

Ebony squeezed it back, tears running down her porcelain cheeks. "But how unfeeling must we become?"

"Enough to have a future," Freya said.

Freya was Mags' favorite. She was always sure and never sad, even if she was often angry, but she made up for it with great stories with happy endings. Mags caught a glimpse of two dark haired men in the station with the discarded binoculars before her father picked her up and ran for cover. Mags saw Freya shoot the signal rocket into the air.

Light flared behind her closed eyes. She covered her ears just in time, pressing mightily with her hands. She hoped no one could tell she still found the explosions terrifying. A hot gust of wind pressed her harder against her father's chest. She kept very still. Everything was less scary when she was in those big arms.

They didn't wait for the dust to settle. The train never reached the station. They had succeeded.

Mags looked down.

Succeeded... Had they? How much pride could one take in a failed rebellion? Rebelling kept people's eyes open and stopped the Capitol's lies from twisting their minds beyond recognition, but had they only succeeded in reminding people of the truth of the Capitol's evil? And only for a time, she glumly thought, Achlys' terrible speech branded in her mind. When would they stop being unwilling servants and finally make their own futures, led by people they admired?

"I remember," Mags whispered, "I wish it hadn't been necessary. But how did you know our names?"

For the first time Cresyl didn't look so hostile but pain still dulled his eyes. "The trains were for district people too back then. My brother knew Freya Peregrine, and by extension your whole family, from the passenger list, because he thought she was the prettiest girl he'd seen in months, to his wife's great exasperation," his tone grew sarcastic, losing every last hint of softness, "ironic that he died seeing her face. It wasn't quick nor pretty, burns make painful lingering deaths."

Mags couldn't meet his gaze.

"You joined the Capitol to avenge your family?" Fife said, skepticism written all over her features.

Cresyl snorted. "No. The rebels had left us to die like the collateral casualties we were. The explosions had left us cripples, scarred pathetic monsters, miles away from civilization with no supplies." The man tried to sit up straighter despite his bonds. His hands were tied behind his back but his hateful glare was like a choke on Mags' neck. "Do you have any idea how much fire hurts? Brisa was twelve and she had to carry her screaming mother because I couldn't. Solano's feet were blistered and bleeding but he walked without a complaint. He was eight, old enough to weep at the knowledge that rebels, his heroes, had seen fit to sacrifice his whole family for the greater good." Cresyl took a deep breath, as if struggling to pursue. Mags blinked tears out of her eyes, uncertain she could bear to hear more. Why? Why had they had to make such decisions in the hope of a fair world? Why did it have to be so hard?

"The Capitol healed our wounds, gave us a house in the fortress city and enough money to be able to live as real citizens. It's better than anything rebels would have granted a collaborator who'd have the foolishness to beg for his family's life."

"In exchange for your services as a spy," Constantine said, his eyes burning with an indescribable expression.

Cresyl smiled mirthlessly. "Of course. Peregrine would have probably shot his daughter and committed suicide instead. I preferred to give the Capitol my loyalty in exchange for my loved ones' lives and happiness."

Would her dad have shot her? She probably would have asked him to…. Could she forgive Cresyl? Did love and responsibility to one's family excuse everything?

"Even if it kills the people whose ideals you agree with?" Mags said, feeling sick.

"All agree that sacrifices are to be made but most people balk when they have to be the ones making great sacrifices. We have made sacrifices Mags, but not great ones, not yet, hopefully not ever," Freya had told her one night. Mags had thought she understood. She hadn't, she had been much too young to know what she was giving up. She hadn't yet lost anyone close to her.

"Yes," Cresyl said without so much as a wince, "if I don't value my family's happiness above all else, who will?"

No wonder it had been so easy for Capitolites to fight: it had been mere tactics and numbers to them. Two rebels had died for each person fighting for the Capitol, but among the last, barely a tenth had been actual Capitol citizens. The city itself had been lightly bombed, but never had the fight reached the Capitol's gates, although there had been rumors of an early peacekeeper revolt.

"No-one," Fife agreed somberly, "Mags, we should go now. Do you have a way to reliably knock him out so he cannot harm the rebels at all until this is finished or must I shoot him?"

Mags met Fife's wary eyes. Mags couldn't kill Cresyl. Not because he was a human being, he was dangerous enough to warrant killing. Hell, he was probably one of the most dangerous people in this part of District Three. No, Mags couldn't kill him because she needed to show the Capitol that she could be swayed in her convictions and give them the 'I was wrong to be a rebel' speech they would demand of her. The mere thought was repulsive, yet she now knew she would never achieve anything without giving the Capitol some ground. She'd known for months she would have to lie but she had never been so acutely aware that her integrity had become a bargaining chip.

"Let's find the lift while I think," she said. "How long would it take to un-weld the door?"

"You can't," Fife replied, "you'd have to smash it down."

Good. They'd simply have to block the lift to make sure no one could rescue Cresyl in time.

It took them almost an hour, they had made the mistake of checking the walls before the center of the large room and they hadn't counted on expert camouflage. The lift was a ten foot wide square platform - of a very similar color to the floor - loaded with crates, and only a single lever on the side. Needless to say, with their single torchlight and the room crammed enough to burst, they were lucky Constantine had almost literally walked into it. From up close they noticed a smaller lever on the platform itself. Fife double checked the map to make sure they would not lose themselves in the Citadel once below.

"Does it work?" Keane asked glumly. He looked like he'd rather still be sleeping.

Mags glared at him. They were all exhausted and his mood was dangerously catching. "Could you please not get us all depressed?"

Keane met her gaze, his bushy eyebrows rising at her words. His glare darkened and his face flushed with outrage, making Mags regret her lack of tact. He flipped her off. "Shoot me," he spat.

Constantine had him by the collar and set him on the platform before Mags could react. Mags grabbed Constantine's arm painfully when she realized his intent, but she wasn't strong enough to stop him.

He slammed the lever down. The lift, with Keane on it, all but dropped fifteen feet.

Fife's hands flew to her mouth. "Still alive, Keane?" She called as soon as she found her voice.

"So, does it work?" Constantine said in falsely polite tones.

"Goodness gracious, Constantine," Mags hissed, "stop overreacting like that."

The aristocratic boy straightened, an offended righteous expression tightening his features. "I know you can defend yourself but he was quite rude. And he bit my hand."

Fife snickered besides her. Mags cuffed Constantine on the shoulder, hard.

"Oy, Keane," Fife said, worry still creasing her features, "Come on, answer."

"It works, you nutjobs," Keane called from below, his tone a clear indicator of what he thought of their stunt.

Fife cheered. She slung her backpack back and expectantly turned to Constantine.

Constantine nodded towards where Cresyl still was attached. "What about him?"

"Just leave him," Mags muttered, "we'll break the lift to avoid anyone getting him out too fast."

Fife's relief was palpable.

On the second try, Constantine managed to give the platform a reasonable speed. He then used a triangular-shaped metal instrument to jam the lever in place and toppled the contents of the nearest full crate over it.

After a few minutes, taking big breaths, he moved back to admire his handiwork. He stumbled. "I feel ill," he said, bringing his hands to his head, "it's sudden, nausea and…my head…"

Mags frowned, coming to think of it, she felt light-headed and her heart was beating abnormally high. Yet the air smelt clean although the Citadel's airflow system was much stronger than what she remembered. She tied her hair back to keep her hair from flying into her eyes and mouth. Her thoughts felt sluggish, she wondered if it was lack of sleep.

They shared worried glances. Mags voiced her discomfort in a low voice, hating to whine. After a loaded pause, Fife's face suddenly lost all color. "That criminal bastard! Carbon monoxide, it fits… Just run, just follow me out!"

Carbon monoxide?

Fear sizzled through Mags' whole body as she realized the cool wind brushing her face was more lethal than all the fumes fouling the ruins above. She struggled not to give in to her burning lungs and breathe hard or to cede to panic and surpass Fife in a foolish burst of speed. She didn't even pause to look around, her eyes fixed on her feet and her hand clinging onto Fife's for dear life, desperately hoping the girl knew where she was going. Her mind replaced the indistinct shades at the border of her vision with corpses.

The Citadel's gates were open. Mags smiled, not daring herself to breathe in too deeply just yet. There was no one there, just a sentinel bird.

Fife all but pulled it into a hug.

"We know who betrayed you, we know how, we know that they know about the underground train tunnel since at least an hour ago and we need to talk to Sylvan or Chickaree, now!" Fife said, shaking the robot as if it would make it work better.

"We're all here?" Mags said, turning around. Keane and Constantine looked nauseous but alert.

The bird suddenly moved, leading them towards one of the tunnels. They ran after it. When Mags' headache didn't worsen, she laughed, letting herself breathe again. The robot abruptly stopped, rebels moved in to greet them.

Mags' smile fell when she saw their fearsome expressions. The enormity of what had transpired suddenly hit her. Carbon monoxide in the Citadel, enough to poison in minutes, to kill in less than an hour, carbon monoxide in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep. Had Cresyl engineered all this alone? How many were dead? Whole families, the rebels' last bastion…Mags' mouth refused to close, as if her brain couldn't process the information.

A bald man stepped forward and ripped the pike from her hands. Another took Constantine's sword before he could struggle. "Lock them in."

"Wait!" Constantine began, "we –"

"Shut up and follow us," a man snapped, the vein in his neck pulsing dangerously as his teeth came inches from Mags' nose. "I'd kill you right now, Cestoda-toys. Nexus is dead because of you. Mayhap all this happened 'cause of you. I don't care how decent deep down you are. Feel lucky I have to check with the Captain first."

Mags face darkened further at the mention of Teal's husband. Had there been no tributes, Will would not have lost his mind at the sight of death and Teal and Nexus would still be happy together, but Cresyl's actions had little to do with them. Mags nevertheless froze and lifted her hands in surrender, closely followed by Constantine. Fife had already done so. Their lives hung by a thread. There was no reasoning with people mad with grief. Killed by rebels. Mags absolutely refused to die like that. Horror filled her face when she saw Keane's furious expression.

"He's dead because of us?" Keane exploded, "He's dead because of the Capitol. That's like saying the Hunger Games are your fault because you did such a half-assed job at rebelling!"

A gunshot ripped the air. Fife screamed.

Keane fell to his knees, blood rapidly staining his vest. He slumped down on the floor, his forehead hitting the stone with a sickening crack.

"He said shut up," the woman holding the gun said, her eyes ablaze with warning.

Constantine wrapped a tense arm around Mags' waist, tightening the other around a now sobbing Fife, and forced them away from the corpse. They were led into the bunker up to a small barred room without incident, but Mags could taste bloodthirst in the air. She was afraid she would snap with every step and even more afraid one of the rebels would forget their discipline and follow their misleading gut instinct and shoot them too. Still under shock, Mags was suddenly afraid for Lila.

"Fix, Teal, anyone who doesn't hate us, we must find a way to send word," Constantine said once the rebels had slammed the door shut.

Mags let herself fall on the single mattress, still struggling to process the night's events. Cresyl, the gaz, and Keane. Why Keane? Why like this?

"I still have my gun," Fife muttered, as she furiously wiped her tear-stained cheeks. She was still shaking but her face was flushed with anger, not panic.

Mags still had her knives but the rebels had taken their backpacks. She resisted the urge to kick the door or scream. Instead she tried to imitate the way Constantine was regulating his breathing.

"Rest as much as you can. We'll find a way," she said, her voice a hoarse promise.